


A Heart Found in the Darkness

by she_ascends



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Archaeologist!Sherlock, Archaeology, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Slow Burn, archaeology AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 15:57:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 55,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4752296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/she_ascends/pseuds/she_ascends
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock Holmes is an archaeologist and John Watson is a doctor working for the World Health Organization in Rwanda. Will they be able to overcome their pasts and their career ambitions to create a future together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_27 May, 19:15, Central Africa Time Zone_

_Kigali International Airport, Kigali, Rwanda_

 

The landing was a brutal one, which seemed fitting as the entirety of the flight had been less than smooth. Stretching, Sherlock Holmes gathered up his computer bag and other carry on that held his reading material, water bottle, toothbrush and a change of clothes. The handful of Journal of Forensic Research issues that Sherlock had packed had remained unopened in his bag, and the latest Elly Griffiths’ novel had been a last minute grab off the kitchen table on his way to the airport. A gift from someone (his mother, no doubt) that Sherlock couldn’t be sure was a gag or sincere. “Brilliant.” Sherlock had remarked with a touch of undisguised sarcasm when he peeled back the wrapping paper. Why do people assume that I want to read fictionalized tales of my career? It had always been this way – people were forever shocked when Sherlock said coldly that no, Indiana Jones was not his childhood hero, and that no, CSI was not his favourite show on telly.

Regardless, the Elly Griffith’s book had been snatched up blindly and shoved into his carry on while the taxi waiting to take him to the airport honked again from the street below his flat. It wasn’t until he was sitting at the airport gate, waiting to board his flight to Brussels that he sorted through his bag and took notice of the paperback book and heaved a sigh. Sherlock had thought for a minute about abandoning the book in the airport, leaving it for some soul desperate for reading material, but thought better of it when he remembered just how long his layover in Belgium would be.

Now having arrived at his final destination, Sherlock shouldered his computer and bag full of unread reading material, made his way off the plane, and out into the terminal of Kigali International Airport. The airport was quiet and clean, more modern than he had expected. He knew that his perception of the small central African country was based largely on the decade long atrocities that had dominated the media in the 1980s and 1990s. Colleagues had assured him that the country had come a long way since the conflict, and its capital, Kigali, was a quickly developing city. Still, he couldn’t help but be surprised at the free wifi alert that appeared as he switched on his mobile. Caught up in the wave of his fellow passengers, Sherlock made his way down to baggage claim, where he retrieved his nondescript black suitcase and made his way out to the taxi stand.

“The Karisimbi Hotel, please,” he said in French to the driver as he climbed into the backseat.

As they drove closer to the city centre, Sherlock watched the scenery pass by and the sunlight fade from the sky. Supermarkets, shops, and busy streets flashed by, as people lived their lives in peaceful normalcy. Large, modern, multi story buildings peppered the skyline as the taxi continued into the city. Buses, taxis, vans, and sedans all zipped through intersections, horns blaring. By all appearances, Kigali looked like any modern city, bustling and full of life and he felt a twinge of guilt for his preconceived notions. He had expected to find a lacklustre city, full of poverty and traces of conflict. He was suddenly even more impressed by the dynamic landscape he was passing through. On the horizon, small mountains rose up, encircling the city, while tropical trees and plants bordered the roadway.

Sherlock looked down to see his knee bouncing nervously. The whisper of nerves he had been feeling for the past couple of weeks had become a roar, and despite his eagerness to begin his trip, he felt a lump of anxiety forming in his throat. As the taxi arrived at the hotel, he tried in vain to swallow his nerves as he peeled away several Rwandan Francs for the driver. Collecting his bags, Sherlock gave a nod of appreciation to the taxi driver and watched the van re-join the flow of traffic. For some reason, it was this that signalled to him the beginning of the vast unknown that lay ahead of him. Perhaps it was the familiarity of airports and a taxi ride that had prolonged his connection to London and his life there.

But the weeks that lay ahead of him were a mystery. He had plans, contacts, a job to do, and research to conduct, but the images in his head of his life for the next few months had been undone during that taxi ride. Everything that he had expected of this trip so far had been turned on its head, which made him even more unnerved. He frowned, scrambling to reconcile his thoughts and the new reality that was presenting itself. He was glad that Rwanda so far was the opposite of what he had imagined, but it was so different from what he had anticipated, he was feeling off kilter. Trying once more to force down the nerves that bubbled in the back of his throat, he turned and strode into the hotel lobby.

The first few days of his trip would be spent here in Kigali, the small country's capital, meeting his guide and contacts, getting his documents in order from the local United Nations Development Program office, and checking in with the British consulate. Despite the fact that Rwanda was now, for the most part, a peaceful and modern country, the British government liked to keep tabs on its citizens who found themselves travelling and working in the country. He knew that even without making contact at the embassy, his presence in Rwanda was already well on the radar of the highest reaches of Her Majesty’s government. Mycroft hadn’t been in touch yet, but Sherlock would bet the best trowel in his kit that he knew the second Sherlock had checked in to the hotel and collected his room key.

Five floors up from the lobby, he abandoned his bags just inside the door to his room, going immediately to the window. He wrenched the curtains open and looked out across the city. Dusk had fallen in earnest now, but lights sparkled on the streets, and people continued to move about on the sidewalks below. A low rumble of thunder could be heard above the noise of the traffic and a light rain rolled down the mountain, moving towards the city. Rwanda’s rainy season was wrapping up, but from what Sherlock had read, intermittent rainstorms were to be expected for the next couple of weeks before the summer’s dry season began. As the last hints of orange and red receded from the sky, he let his thoughts race ahead of him to the next few months of his life.

Back in London, he held the esteemed, yet lowly, position of Associate Lecturer in the Forensics Department at the University College London. As a junior faculty member, he was embarking on the long slog of tenure track. This meant drawing the short straw on course appointments, lousy committee positions, and the beast of all academia: research. Surprise to no one, he loved the world of academia – the thrum of activity, experimentation, and innovation filled the halls of the university. It was a feeling that powered him. He loved conducting his own research and reaching new, groundbreaking conclusions, making a name for himself within his field. What he didn’t love was the politics of university system. Playing nice, glad-handing the right people, and fawning over doddering old relics of faculty members was trying to most people, and downright excruciating to someone like him, who preferred his solitude and privacy. Invitations to department socials and parties rarely came anymore after all his refusals, even the better since he detested the events. The apparent cold shoulder he turned to the department heads didn’t win him any friends – he knew that he was perceived as being snobbish and socially superior.

The reality was that he never knew how to act in these sorts of situations. That personality trait went to Mycroft in the division of DNA from his parents. While he found the social interactions and game-playing of department politics tedious and frustrating, Sherlock knew it was important for the future of his career in academia. This knowledge, however, did not help him for the most part. He knew that very few of his fellow faculty at the university liked him, and this largely contributed to the fact that he had drawn the short straw in which courses he was assigned to teach – always the first year, introductory courses; and his appointment to the worst faculty committees – Faculty Grievance Panel and the Fraud and Research Misconduct Advisory Committee.

The students in his courses largely respected him, but he had a suspicion that was all down to their fear of him. While the interactions with his students were usually cordial and distant, it was always the anonymous course evals that revealed their true impression of Professor Holmes. Without fail, terms like “hard-arsed,” “uptight,” and “total wanker” always appeared on the end of course evaluations. He tried not to take it to heart – you couldn’t have your students running roughshod over you. And if they feared you, at least they still respected you. Sherlock didn’t understand them or what drove their motivations. Empirically, he knew that he had been a young adult at one time or another, but that still didn’t help him relate to them any better. He had always understood facts and data – it felt much safer to let these concrete rationales drive his actions, not the unpredictable and nebulous realm of emotions and hormones.

It all came down to his research, in the end. He wasn’t about to win a tenured position in the department through making friends and playing the game, and his relationship with his students wasn’t going to redeem him in the eyes of the department either. No, he needed to prove that he was worth his salt through some really dynamic research. For the last year he had been on the hunt for an inspiring and groundbreaking project. Sherlock’s background was in forensic archaeology and for him, the bones were the thing. There was little more beautiful than the length of a femur, or the rounded curve of the parietal bone as it was slowly uncovered by the gentle touch of brush and trowel. Mysteries were solved and cold cases were suddenly red hot with possibility when bones were dug up from the earth. Bones didn’t lie – as structures of calcium woven together, it wasn’t in their nature to deceive. They didn’t talk, and they didn’t expect Sherlock to talk. The skeleton was a beautiful thing and he understood it. The search for that impressive research proposal had been on-going for almost half a year when something finally presented itself at a particularly dreadful meeting of the Chartered Institute for Archaeologists one Wednesday afternoon in January.

 

* * *

 

_Five months earlier_

Every January, the Chartered Institute for Archaeologists held their annual meeting. It was a time to catch up with colleagues, swap field stories, and congratulate each other on the latest research breakthroughs. Sherlock sat in the darkened auditorium, idly shading in the detailed sketch of a human ribcage he had drawn in the margins of his committee minutes. The man at the front of the room had been droning on for some time about new professional standards in the archaeology field. Sherlock knew he should be taking notes or at the very least paying attention, but frankly he couldn’t be bothered. He glanced at his watch, 20 more minutes and he would be free.

"You’ve got quite a talent there,” said a voice over his shoulder.

Sherlock leaned back in shock and turned his head in the direction of the speaker. The voice belonged to a middle aged man with thick grey hair and sharp eyes.

“Uh,” Sherlock stammered, flipping his paper over to cover the fact that he had decidedly not been paying attention to the meeting’s proceedings. “It’s just a doodle.”

"Well it’s quite good. A friend of yours?"

“Uh no, no."

“Ah,” said the man, nodding in comprehension. He stared at Sherlock.

“Oh, right.” He stuck his hand out to the man without turning around. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said uncomfortably.

“Greg Lestrade, University of Leicester,” he said and shook the proffered hand.

“ _Shhhh!_ ” A woman down Sherlock’s row squinted at them angrily. Lestrade shook his head, but leaned back in his seat, while Sherlock looked back down to his legal pad, feigning a sudden interest in the meeting. Twenty-three minutes later, the meeting had adjourned and the lights overhead were coming back on. Sherlock stuffed his legal pad and papers into his leather messenger bag and collected his coat from the seat next to him.

“So, what's your field then, Dr Holmes?” Lestrade had also stood and collected his things. Sherlock looked the man over: _sophisticated dress, expensive briefcase, Blackberry phone, seems out of place among the crowd of academics. Ah, private sector work but decided to go into teaching in the last couple of years. A favour for a friend, perhaps?_

“Forensic archaeology,” Sherlock said, pulling his winter coat on. “Crime scenes,” he said simply, by way of further explanation. Remembering that he was attempting to be polite, he asked “And you?"

“Ethnoarchaeology. I've only recently gotten back into the fieldwork though. I worked for a time in Pretoria, South Africa with the Department for International Development coordinating projects of research groups working in central and southern Africa.” Greg pulled his coat on and the two of them headed towards the door at the back of the auditorium. “Got this gig when I came back from overseas and an old mate of mine from D-FID said Leicester was looking for someone to cover their ethno courses. I was getting bloody tired of the bureaucracy anyway,” he laughed and gestured back at the auditorium. “Not sure if I’ve escaped it though.”

Sherlock nodded, offering a tight smile. They stood on the street now, outside the auditorium. It was overcast, windy, and cold enough to snow. Before he could say goodbye, Greg rubbed his gloved hands together. “Cor, it’s cold. Fancy a pint? There’s a pub down the road that I go to after these meetings. I always need a drink after that lot.”

Glancing down at his watch, Sherlock tried to come up with a reasonable excuse to beg off. He was supposed to meet Mycroft for their annual _weavoidedseeingeachotheratChristmas_ dinner, but he was really not looking forward to it. This Lestrade fellow seemed tolerable, and would likely be less wearisome than the average university lackey. Plus, one drink would make Sherlock late for his dinner engagement, something that would drive Mycroft to annoyance.

“All right. But just one, my brother is expecting me for dinner.”

 

 

“So, have you been teaching archaeology studies at UCL very long?” Lestrade asked after they had settled in a table at the back of The Exmouth Arms. Sherlock sipped from his drink.

“I'm with the forensics department, actually. Only been there a few years. I spent a couple years in the Shetlands conducting research on Mesolithic settlements and some time in Siberia on the Baikal Archaeology Project.”

“Don’t much like warm weather then, eh?”

“I go where the research takes me,” he said simply.

“How did you end up in forensics?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. He abhorred talking about himself. He had hoped that the pub would be crowded enough that they wouldn’t have to talk and he could just sip his beer in companionable silence. He blew out a breath. “I also do consulting work for Scotland Yard occasionally. It helps to pay the bills.”

“So when they find a dead body buried in Greenwich Park, they call you to help them dig it up?” his voice took on an excited note.

“I’m only interested when they’ve been dead for some time,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I deal in bones. Occasionally I can offer help with the recently deceased, but there are professionals for that sort of work.”

“So like cold case serial killers who bury the bodies and such?”

“Sometimes.”

“Gruesome,” he said, but his tone hinted that he was more than a little interested. They were quiet for a beat, sipping their beers. Then, Lestrade’s head snapped up, regarding him shrewdly.

“I'm actually headed down to Rwanda for a dig this summer. My department has been given permission to excavate a mass grave in the western region.” He pointed at Sherlock. "I'm coordinating the team and don't yet have a forensics expert. Fancy a go?"

Sherlock set down his beer and rubbed a finger over his bottom lip, thinking.

“You ever do work on anything like that? Mass graves?”

“No…” he said slowly. “No I haven’t.”

“Well, think about it. I'm trying to firm up the project team in the next couple of weeks..."

Greg continued to talk and Sherlock let him, grateful for the reprieve of making conversation. _It's something to think about, isn’t it?_ he pondered. It would certainly be innovative. Most of the published material on African archaeology wasn’t any younger than the Iron Age. Plus the criminal perspective of it would spark the interest of his colleagues.

“And I said, ‘does this look “inanimate” to you, punk? If I can move, and I can talk, who’s to say I can’t do anything I want?!’” Greg set his glass down hard and let out a loud laugh, startling Sherlock out of his musings. He had obviously missed the work up to a terrible joke. Looking at his watch, he realised he was now well over twenty minutes late to his dinner. Downing the dregs of his beer, he grabbed his coat and stood.

“I must be going,” he announced.

“Oh, right,” Greg said, obviously caught off guard at the abrupt end to the conversation. “I’ll walk out with you.” He finished his beer, got to his feet and followed Sherlock outside.

“Call me Monday and we can discuss more details of the project," he handed Sherlock a business card from his wallet.

“Thanks,” Sherlock said, pocketing the card. “Well, thanks for the beer. I’ll, uh, see you around I suppose?”

“I’m sure you will. London is a small city, you know,” Greg winked at him and stuck out his hand for Sherlock to shake. “I’ll see you around, mate.”

  

A seven-minute cab ride later and Sherlock was sitting in an upscale bistro, Mycroft’s annoyed gaze boring into him.

“So good of you to join me, dear brother. Lose track of time?” Mycroft had a way of sounding both bored and furious at the same time.

“Not at all. I was perfectly aware of the time,” Sherlock said, opening his menu. “What’s good here?” He wasn’t hungry, but the nonchalance would further push his brother’s buttons.

They were halfway through their mains when he decided to bring it up. “I’m thinking about going to Africa this summer,” he said.

“That does seem like the perfect time of year for it,” Mycroft said sarcastically.

“Its proximity to the equator actually makes it quite a temperate place as long as you stay out of the Sahara.”

“And what will you be doing on the Dark Continent?” Mycroft said, choosing not to concede the point.

Sherlock chewed his osso bucco for a moment before replying. “Research.” 

“Naturally.”

“It’s a big continent, Mycroft, with many places one could find things to dig up.”

“Well let us hope you can make your way home without contracting a nasty infection or being shot up by rebel militias, hmm?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “I may need your help with a visa and the like.” The last thing he wanted to do was ask for his brother’s help, but in this case it probably couldn’t be avoided.

Mycroft grinned slyly. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“You heard me. The department won’t grant me funding for a research trip until I have the proper documentation. I only have five months until the end of term and summer holiday begins.” Mycroft watched him, apparently waiting for something. Sherlock aimed a swift kick at him under the table, missing by a hair.

“I’m still not sure how I fit into your little ‘Heart of Darkness’ expedition,” he said.

“Will you assist me?” Sherlock ground his teeth. “Please,” he spat the last word out.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, grinning smugly. And that was that.

 

* * *

 

The last five months had been busy, to say the least. Preliminary research had to be done, proposals written, and contacts made, not to mention the packing and trips to the doctor for immunizations. Sherlock also had his teaching and departmental duties to attend to. He had to play nice in order to receive the funding he needed for his trip. But all too quickly it was May and he was throwing last minute items into his suitcase and searching his flat for his spare set of callipers. And then he was on a plane gliding up, up into the sky.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock turned away from the window overlooking Kigali and dug his mobile out of the front pocket of his trousers. He had two missed texts from Mycroft ( _of course_ ), which he promptly ignored. Scrolling through his contacts, Sherlock jotted off a message to Greg.

 **Arrived in Kigali.** **Meet you in the hotel lobby tomorrow morning? – SH**

Sherlock pocketed his phone and went to his luggage. No point in unpacking, since he would be departing for the dig site in Gafunzo the day after tomorrow, but he retrieved his wash bag from the suitcase and took it into the ensuite. His mobile buzzed in his pocket and he fished it out.

**Sure. 9am all right?**

**See you then. –SH**

Sherlock made quick work of brushing his teeth, swiped a hotel flannel over his face, and shut off the bathroom light. Back in the room, undressed down to his pants and t-shirt and pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms from his bag. It was only 9:35 PM local time, but the exhaustion from a full day of international travel was creeping up on him. Laptop in hand, he slid under the crisp hotel sheets and sat back against his pillow. The rainstorm had passed as quickly as it had begun and the last rumbles of thunder were fading. Only ten minutes of email later, Sherlock felt his eyelids begin to droop, and before long, he was dead asleep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter than the last. Don't worry – they'll pick back up and we'll learn more about John as we go. Enjoy, and happy Monday!

_27 May, 19:15, Central Africa Time Zone_

_Kibogora Hospital, Kirambo, Rwanda_

 

John Watson stood up from the hospital bed he had been kneeling next to and stretched his back. It had been another long day and he was beginning to run on fumes. Massaging his temple, he turned to the young woman sitting on the opposite bedside.

“Please, tell your sister that she will be just fine,” he said in French, giving the young woman a reassuring, if tired, smile. As the young woman translated to the little girl lying in bed, the girl gave John a weak smile.

“Thank you, doctor,” she said in accented English.

“You’re very welcome,” he replied dropping his hand and giving her shoulder a soft rub. “I’ll be back to check in on her in the morning. If you need anything during the night, the nurses will be here.” He gave the elder sister another reassuring smile and made some notes for the overnight nurse in the chart hanging on the wall over the bed. Tucking his pen into the breast pocket of his blue scrubs, John made his way across the quiet ward, stopping at the nurse’s station just outside the swinging doors.

“How is it looking for the rest of the night?” he asked Adelaide, the head nurse in charge for the night shift. John looked over her shoulder in the direction of the waiting room. There were a few people sitting on the metal folding chairs that sat under flickering fluorescent lights. A handful of patients lay on gurneys that lined the dimly lit hall beyond the waiting room.

“Should be quiet,” Adelaide gestured at the large chalkboard to her left. The various patient wards in Kibogora Hospital were noted with the number of patients currently in residence. The other side of the board showed the list of hospital staff on duty. “Plus, Dr Cameron just came on duty for the evening. Go on and get some rest, Dr Watson,” she handed John a small stack of charts. “But before you go, I need signatures and notes on these.” John exhaled an exaggerated, put upon sigh and Adelaide smiled.

“Ta, Adelaide.” John pulled his pen back out of his breast pocket and picked up the stack. He came around the desk, kicked out the empty chair next to the blonde nurse, and sat down heavily, rolling his shoulders as he opened the chart on top.

“Your nine month anniversary in Rwanda is next week, am I right?” she asked.

“That it is. Hard to believe it, eh?” John shook his head as he scrawled notes on the first patient’s chart. John had been at Kibogora only seven weeks, but was serving his second round at the hospital in Rwanda’s Western _intara_. The World Health Organization liked to keep their doctors rotating through hospitals on ten-week schedule. It was gruelling, but kept the staff from growing “too attached,” something easily done in the remote and emotionally exhausting circumstances. “I’ve been in the country for nearly a year but it seems like I arrived just yesterday.”

“We should celebrate! I have a bit of that whiskey left over from last time…” she gave John a warm, hopeful smile.

John liked Adelaide – her blonde hair and Australian accent made him think of sunshine and beaches. On the night two months ago that John and two other doctors had arrived for their second tour at Kibogora, there had been a low-key party. The evening had begun innocently enough with said bottle of whiskey and some dancing, but had ended with John and Adelaide back in his room on the hospital’s compound. She had been, erm, obliging and the sex had been nice, but John wasn’t angling for a repeat. Hook-ups were common among the World Health Organization staff on the compound, but with only a dozen or so WHO doctors and nurses at Kibogora Hospital at any one time, John always felt that things got a bit, well, incestuous. Flipping to the next chart, John kept his head down and avoided Adelaide’s eye.

“John, we can be adults, I think,” she said quietly, but with a hint of laughter in her voice. “You and I don’t have any sort of agreement. If we did, I would be having a few words with you about the heady looks you keep giving Dr Wexler.”

John felt a hot flush creep above the neckline of his scrubs and snapped his head up from his charts to gape at the smiling nurse. Adelaide let out a chuckle at the look on his face.

“Don’t worry, your secret crush is safe with me,” she mimed locking her lips closed. “He is devilishly handsome with his dark hair and eyes. Though I don’t typically go for the older man myself.” She took the finished charts from John and sorted them into the piles already on her desk. “Just think about it, the party I mean. It’s not every day that one of us lasts nine months in this country.”

“You’re right. It would be fun,” John said as he stood, pushing in his chair and stretching. “I’m going to try and find something to eat in the canteen before I head back to my room. You want anything?”

“No, I’m good,” she waived a half-eaten sleeve of biscuits at him in illustration. “You go on. I’ll see you at rounds in the morning.”

“Cheers. Come get me if you need anything tonight,” he said and set off down the hall towards the hospital's small canteen. The place was quiet at this hour, a stark contrast of the chaos that typically descended each morning. The WHO had set up a command centre in Rwanda four years ago after a particularly virulent strain of cholera blazed through the more rural parts of the country. After a near epidemic of the infectious disease broke out in the refugee camps following the conflict of the 1990s, the occasional outbreak was more rare, but not uncommon. However the numbers of cases of cholera had seen an uptick in the last few years prompting WHO and other health organizations to send doctors and nurses to assist local hospitals across the country. Cholera was nasty business: a messy and ravishing infection that left its victims weak and dehydrated in only a matter of hours after presentation. John and the rest of the WHO staff at Kibogora worked long hours in a sea of (controlled) chaos and noise. These evening hours where calm and quiet settled in the wards and halls of the small rural hospital were always a welcome reprieve.

John passed patient wards and heard the noises of both the ill and the recovering. Someone was singing in a low voice as John passed by one open door and across the hall he heard a stifled groan. Finally reaching the canteen, he saw a few hospital staff sitting at one of the otherwise abandoned tables. He raised his hand in greeting, but continued to the table in the back of the room that held tea, coffee, and hopefully, a small bite of something to eat. Armed with a cup of hot, milky tea and a handful of dried dates, John left the main hospital building and headed across the compound to the low breezeblock building that housed the hospital staff. Overhead, a long roll of thunder rumbled and the first fat drops of a rainstorm landed on the dusty dirt at John’s feet. He hastily unlocked the door to his room, flicked on the overhead light and set his tea on the table at his bedside. Another roll of thunder, this time accompanied with a flash of lightning, and the solitary bulb affixed to the ceiling flickered briefly. Electricity wasn’t always a given in these remote parts of the mountains. John just hoped that it lasted until morning – the generators wouldn’t last the night if they had to be started up now.

His room wasn’t much, but compared to the accommodations during his time in Afghanistan, it was downright palatial. A single metal-framed bed stood in one corner of the smallish room. Sheets tucked in severe hospital corners were mostly hidden by a gigantic mosquito net that hung from the ceiling. A serviceable armoire stood in the opposite corner and a few open shelves by the door held the remainder of John’s personal possessions. A couple photographs including one of John’s sister, Harriet and her partner, as well as a group photo of some soldiers in desert fatigues, squinting against the sun, stood side by side on the shelf alongside a couple of medical texts, a well-thumbed copy of _As I Lay Dying_ , and a handsome leather medical bag, embossed with the initials JHW. John set his stethoscope on the shelf and pulled his scrub top over his head, wiping some of the sweat off his face before tossing it in a basket by the armoire. A fresh t-shirt and flannel in hand, he set off down the hall to the communal bathroom to get ready for bed. Fifteen minutes later, the thunder had turned into nothing more than a passing rainstorm, and John was ensconced in his mosquito net, with his mobile and cooling tea. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was only 21:35 and pulled up his email, thinking of dashing a quick note off to Harry. The slow roll of thunder receding into the distance was strangely soothing and soon the day’s exhaustion caught up to him. John felt his eyelids begin to droop, and before long, he was dead asleep.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_28 May, 8:45, Central Africa Time Zone_

_Karisimbi Hotel, Kigali, Rwanda_

Sherlock was awake and dressed in expensive dark brown slacks, a well-tailored, light blue dress shirt, and oxfords. He had woken up at 6:00 am, as was his habit, but without much to occupy his time, he had spent the majority of the morning pacing the hotel hallways, chewing his thumbnail, deep in thought. Several times the hotel staff had maneuverer room service and cleaning trolleys around him, squeezing by, without him even looking up.

He was anxious. Sherlock preferred it when he had a plan, with scenarios mapped out for all eventualities. He had been on enough excavations to know that in many cases only so much of the site and the dig itself could be planned. Some projects were in extremely remote areas, cut off from modern conveniences and amenities. Sherlock wasn’t the least bit opposed to roughing it – he enjoyed his hot showers, designer clothes, and his large bed back in his flat, but these were all things he was more than willing to give up, and had done so on many occasions, for the sake of the research.

But this was how he operated. He would fret, plan, and overthink in the weeks leading up to the start of the project. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, he would internalize all of his worries and adapt. He had a job to do, the future of his career depended on this project. Once the team left Kigali, there was little that could be done but adapt to whatever happened. He wasn’t worried...much.

He glanced at his watch, _8:50. Time to head downstairs._ Stopping by his room for his messenger bag, Sherlock took the lift down to the lobby where he was meeting Lestrade. After Sherlock rang him months ago and said he was interested in the project, he had requested Sherlock’s CV and references, but hadn't been in touch much since then. Sherlock didn’t know much about the project or who else was on the team. The lack of details was causing Sherlock further anxiety and the ball of nerves that had formed last night persisted, if not gotten larger. Exiting the lift, he spotted Lestrade across the lobby and strode in his direction.

“Good to see you again, Sherlock,” he said as they shook hands.

“Likewise.”

“Fancy some breakfast? The restaurant here at the Karisimbi makes a beautiful poached egg.” Sherlock nodded and followed Lestrade into the dining room. They were seated and their orders placed before Lestrade seemed ready to get down to business.

“You ready to get to work?”

“Definitely. Is the team leaving tomorrow?” Sherlock’s knee bounced under the table.

“We are. We’ll head out tomorrow morning. There’s a team meeting this evening where we’ll go over all the details.” Sherlock sighed and Lestrade laughed. “A bit eager, eh?” Sherlock made a frustrated noise.

“Well I applaud your enthusiasm. But don’t go into this blindly. I’ve seen your resume and know this is far from your first project. That being said, this is a whole new kettle of fish from anything you’ve worked on before. There are politics, serious politics, at play here. These are some real atrocities we’re getting involved in, so it’s understandable if this brings up a lot of emotions.”

“That won’t be a problem,” said Sherlock, barely suppressing an eye roll. “I never have trouble separating myself from the work. Emotions and sentiment cloud the mind and can have adverse effects on the research.” Lestrade quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, well. I’m just saying don’t get too in your own head about this.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock said confidently. At that moment, their breakfast arrived and they tucked in. They stuck to neutral topics of conversation _–_ colleagues they both knew, their teaching experiences, and university politics. Sherlock picked at his toast, while Lestrade inhaled a full English with inhuman speed.

After their plates were cleared, Lestrade pulled a thick stack of papers from his bag at his feet, pushing them towards Sherlock across the table. “You’ll need to take these down to the British Consulate and the UN office. They’ll need to see your passport along with these papers confirming you’ll be working with the team. The red tape is a headache, but there’s no way around it.” Sherlock downed the last swallow of his tea and stood, papers clutched in his hand.

“I’ll see you at the meeting tonight then,” he said.

“That you will. Ring me if you run into any trouble at the Consulate.”

 

Sherlock spent the remainder of his morning waiting in interminable lines at the British Consulate’s office to have his paperwork finalized. Even a phone call to Mycroft couldn’t bypass through the bureaucratic roadblocks that had him being shuffled from window to window and desk to desk. Finally, two hours, four stamps on his papers, several phone calls to unknown entities of a higher clearance, and a slip of paper in his passport later, and he was free to leave. Another hour was spent at the United Nations Development Programme to finalize his contract employment position with their archaeological team. Finally, _finally_ , Sherlock was free.

He stepped onto the pavement outside the UNDP office and lifted his face to the sunshine, breathing in the fresh air. Around him, people went about their lives, some giving him a look as he basked in the sun. Catching sight of his reflection in a storefront window, Sherlock reached up and attempted to arrange his hair to look a little less deranged. The frustration of the last few hours had him almost literally pulling his hair out at the roots. He supposed a pale, gangly, and wild-haired Englishman was not a common sight in Kigali. Checking his watch, he saw there were still a few hours before he was due to meet the team for their debriefing and several things on his to do list.

 

The evening's meeting was held in one of the small conference rooms at the UNDP office _–_ a non-descript, windowless room with a conference table and mismatched chairs. Sherlock took a seat next to a small, mousy haired young woman with large brown eyes, hoping that her unassuming appearance meant she wouldn't be too bothersome. He extracted his legal pad from his bag and settled in, watching the mouse-woman surreptitiously from the corner of his vision. _Nails bitten short and chewed cuticles – nervous or under some amount of anxiety; copious amounts of cat hair – has probably...three cats; pen ink smudged on left hand, dark circles under her eyes – working late, on a deadline perhaps?_

As much as he would wish to keep to himself, Sherlock knew that sooner or later he would have to talk to the people on the team. These sorts of remote digs meant spending a great deal of time with this small group of people. It wasn't that he didn't want to get along with people, it's just that it was always so much bloody work. Reading their social cues, interpreting their body language, reading the unsaid words. It was exhausting and frankly, he'd rather not have to do it. But this group of people would be some of his only human interactions for the next eight weeks. He's better get over his frustration if he wanted to not be left in the African jungle for dead by his angry co-workers.

"Dr Sherlock Holmes," he said turning to the woman and offering her his hand to shake.

"Oh! Molly Hooper!" she replied, grasping his hand and squeezing it tightly. "Dr Holmes, it's so wonderful to meet you!"

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock extracted his hand from her grasp carefully. “So, you’re here for research as well?” he pointed at her ink-smudged left hand.

“How did you know?” she rubbed at the ink.

“You just look like someone who’s up against a deadline. And why else would you be here under that kind of pressure if it weren’t related to your work? It was fairly obvious, really.” Molly gave a nervous little laugh.

“Well yes, you’re very perceptive, Dr Holmes.”

“Please, call me Sherlock.”

“Sherlock, then. I’m an epidemiologist from Bart’s. I suppose I am on a deadline. Working on a paper on contagious diseases and the disposal of human remains in emergency situations. Grim stuff, huh?”

“No grimmer than my interests, I assure you.” Before he could elaborate, Lestrade stood up from his chair and brought the meeting to order.

“Thanks to everyone for joining us today. We have a lot to cover, so let us go ahead and begin with some introductions.” Returning to his seat, he gestured to the ruddy-faced man sitting to his right.

“Hiya, I’m Lincoln Hapsworth. I work at Oxford in our Institute of Social and Cultural Anthropology and study African anthropology, but I suppose that’s fairly obvious?” Nervous laughter. “Let’s see, I have been conducting research on the history of inter-tribal conflict in the central African region. Thought this would be a good opportunity to come and see some more modern studies first-hand.”

Next was a grey-haired woman in her early forties. “Serena Layton, Cambridge. I teach in the department of Archaeology. Been there about twelve years. I’m on sabbatical this year and was looking for a unique dig to work on. Greg has graciously offered to let me join in.”

Hawk-nosed young woman with dark, curly hair: “Hi all, I’m Karyna Elwes. I am a PhD student of Dr Lestrade’s at Leicester. My thesis research is in Carnac and Neolithic sites in France, but I’m here assisting Greg in his own research. Excited to work with all of you!”

“Hello, uh, hi! Molly Hooper. I’m an epidemiologist at Bart’s and The London School of Medicine. I am working on an article about infectious diseases found at sites of mass casualties for the British Medical Journal. And, uh. Thanks!”

Sherlock gave a cough. “Yes – Sherlock Holmes, forensic archaeologist. Associate Lecturer at University College London and consulting archaeologist for Scotland Yard.” Another cough and a nod. “Good to meet you all.”

The rest of the introductions proceeded around the table. “Nate Emerson, University of York, archaeology.”

“Laney Priestly, Cambridge, archaeology.”

“Sarah Haden, University of York, cultural archaeology.”

“Phil Hughes, Uni of Leicester, recceology.”

“Chas Alberts, King’s College, osteology.”

“And I’m Greg Lestrade, of course, your fearless leader! University of Leicester, ethnoarchaeology and chair of the archaeology department.”

Sherlock looked around the assembled group. Emerson, Priestly, and Alberts all seemed to fit the Ivory Tower academic type, whereas everyone else seemed relaxed and approachable. For the most part, everyone seemed eager to be here and to get to work. He was glad, as he had no desire to spend the next eight weeks working with the exact type of people he had left back at UCL.

“So. To business.” said Lestrade, bringing everyone back to attention. “We are heading out tomorrow morning at 7. Our convoy will leave at exactly that time, so I would advise you all meet in the lobby of the Karisimbi Hotel at 6:30 with all of your luggage and gear. We have a van for the lot of us and another for the bags and gear. The trek to Gafunzo is about three and a half hours so we’ll arrive mid-morning and can set up camp before it should get too terribly hot.

“Our local contacts will be meeting us on our way to camp. Their purpose is to act as translators and go betweens with any locals we interact with. We aren’t expecting any trouble, but it’s always better to play it safe in these sorts of situations.” He paused and seemed to be searching for words. A few people around the table shifted nervously in their seats. It was clear that most of the group had not worked on a project fraught with such difficulties and sensitivities. Sherlock wondered if the reality of their situation was starting to sink in for everyone else, as it was him.

“This isn’t anyone’s first dig project. You are all professionals. But this is a special situation. The conflict, the genocide here in Rwanda ended over a decade ago, but for many people, it is still a fresh horror. Many people lost family members in the conflict. The mass gravesites we will be working with may contain the remains of people in the nearby villages. Now, our contacts and I have visited these villages and spoken with the people there. They are aware of us and what we are coming to do, but it may still be a tense situation when we begin.

“Remember that while for you lot this is a chance to gain some experience or do some research, these are possibly the relatives and family members of the remains we’ll be excavating. This is, quite literally, digging up unpleasant memories and horrors for these folks. Be sensitive to that. We will try to keep this as closed a site as possible, but I’ve discussed it with our local contacts, and we agreed that we can’t keep people shut out. It would be bad relations. After we excavate the remains and collect the necessary data, there will be burial services as per the local customs.

“This may be a difficult project for some of you who haven’t worked with this sort before. Do what you need to do to get through it. We have a unique opportunity here to not only do some good work for ourselves and for our institutions, but also for the people of this country. Remember that.” He paused to let his words settle a moment.

“Now then, any questions?” Sarah raised her hand.

“You said that we shouldn’t expect any trouble on site. Were you referring to trouble with the local population? Or rebel militias? I think we’ve all seen the news. Rural central Africa isn’t exactly a peaceful place right now.”

Lestrade nodded. “I have been assured by our consulate as well as our local contacts that our location has not seen any militia or terrorist activity in several years,” said Ben. “That being said, you do raise a point. Gafunzo is only thirty kilometres from the border of the Democratic Republic of Congo, which is a politically unstable country. Several of our contacts that will be with us are with the Rwandan Defense Forces. They will be armed, but not in full uniform. We don’t want it to appear as though we’re occupying the site by force. The personnel will be there to both protect us, should the need arise, but also to act as liaisons with the locals. Any more questions?”

A few more people asked questions, but Sherlock let his mind wander. He was, all of a sudden, exponentially more excited about this project. It suddenly felt very real and he couldn’t wait to begin. The research that would come out of it would be innovative and would surely impress the tenure committee. Despite the warnings, he was still unconcerned about the emotional toll of the dig. Sherlock wasn’t prone to strong emotion, especially when he was working. He was easily able to disconnect and bury himself in his work. However, Lestrade was right, this was unlike any project he had been involved with before. Like this project, all of his previous work had involved communities afflicted by conflict and violence; it was his area of interest. But never before had relatives of the deceased been present for the excavation, and certainly not immediate relatives. When he worked with Scotland Yard on their crime scenes, they were always closed scenes and family members of the victims were never present. He saw no reason this should affect his mind space.

By this time the meeting was wrapping up. People were standing and gathering their belongings. Nate, sitting to Sherlock’s left, raised his voice above the din.

“Oi! Drinks anyone? Let’s meet in the bar at the hotel in twenty-five minutes.”

Sherlock passed the short walk back to the hotel in polite conversation with Molly Hooper, chatting about London, their favourite pubs, and other inconsequential things. When they had arrived at the hotel bar, Nate was already there, ordering a round of beers for the group. When everyone had arrived, Karyna, the young PhD student, raised her glass and offered a toast. They all drank to the project.

As he made small talk, Sherlock took the opportunity to study his cohort members more closely. The deductions, reading people, was something the he was quite good at. It was a game that he and Mycroft had played as children _–_ competing to see which one of them could deduce the most information about a person. Now, decades later, he found it to be a good way of staving off the boredom of social situations. Furthermore, if faced with actually having to converse with someone, he usually felt better about it if he were armed with a few choice details about their life, habits, and secrets.

He trained his attention on Phil Hughes, one of Lestrade’s co-workers from Leicester. _Late fifties, married twice with one child from each union._ He took in the cheap cut of the man’s suit and the shoes that had been polished severely to cover the scuffmarks. _Paying a good amount of alimony to the second one. Does online gambling to bring in some extra quid and is fairly successful at it. Plays mostly poker and some baccarat. Lives alone with his pet African Grey parrot...bored!_

Lincoln Hapsworth was his next target. _Married. Three male children – two in primary school, one still in nappies at home. Amateur numismatic. Will likely end up cheating on his wife before this trip is over...bored!_

He caught sight of Karyna across the room, talking to Molly. _Karyna Elwes. Fancies her advisor, Lestrade, but is in a long-term relationship with another graduate student. Correction...tenuous long-term relationship. Close with her father, but is estranged from her alcoholic mother. Writes Twin Peaks fan fiction and recently returned from the Twin Peaks Festival in Sydney. Worried about being the only student on the trip and that she’ll prove inadequate to the task..._

Two beers and an hour of small talk later, Sherlock made his escape upstairs to his room. As he prepared for bed, Sherlock wrestled with another thought that was bothering him. He was eager to see the shape the research took over the course of the project. He was excited for the dig and for what they would discover as they worked. A small amount of guilt was niggling at his brain though. So many people had died in the Rwandan genocide, and he, Sherlock, would be profiting from their deaths. It was something he had thought about before, given the nature of his academic interests. But this felt closer to the surface, more uncomfortable, for him to be face to face with the violence and its results. Here, again, was the trouble with mixing emotion with work. He knew that there was nothing that he could do to change the situation, the best that he could do would be to learn all he could from the project, and separate his emotions from it.

After ringing down to the front desk and arranging for a 5:45 am wake up call, Sherlock settled into bed, hoping sleep would come soon. He always had trouble sleeping the night before the beginning of a project. His mind wandered, thinking about the next eight weeks, fretting over the unknown details. With only a moderate amount of tossing and turning, he was asleep within the hour.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NB: This chapter contains description of traumatic injury and medical procedures, as well as the death of a minor (very minor) character.  
> This week's installment is a doozy in length, but I think it's worth it. Enjoy!

_28 May, 6:00, Central Africa Time Zone_

_Kibogora Hospital, Kirambo, Rwanda_

John woke up abruptly, well before his 7 AM alarm, his breath coming in rapid pants and his heart racing. A cold sweat covered his skin like dew, but the temperature in his room was comfortable. He sat up quickly in bed scanning the room for what might have awoken him. And then the dream came rushing back. Sometimes his dreams were vivid and heartbreakingly real. On those nights he would be awoken by his own tears dampening the pillow. Other times, like this one, they would be more flashes of memory – impressions of people, incidents, emotions. These were the ones that triggered his "fight-or-flight" reaction – his breath caught in his chest and muscles tighter than a bowstring.

He lay back down again, willing his heart to return to a normal pace. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, or at least doze until his alarm forced him out of bed. But sleep would not come. Ten minutes later he pushed the mosquito net aside and reached for the black and white marbled composition notebook stashed in his bedside cupboard. When he had retired from active duty, his mandated psychologist had suggested keeping a dream journal to help process and work through his dreams (John refused to call them nightmares, a term he felt gave them more gravitas than they merited). He struggled with the dreams, both in that they interrupted his sleep, but he also couldn't help feel like they were a sign of weakness. But there was nothing he could do to stop them. In addition to the psychotherapy he had also tried hypnotism, pre-bedtime meditation, and medication, all to no avail. The journal at least allowed him to get the dream out of his head and on to paper where it couldn't follow him around all day.

He allowed his mind to drift, grasping at the impressions still remaining now that the haze of sleep had passed. The coppery smell of blood ( _his? or someone else's?)_ , the warmth of it pouring over his fingers. Shouting voices, ( _"more incoming wounded! Captain Watson! There are more casualties coming in!"_ ) and the feeling of rising panic. The dry heat of the desert and the squish of blood soaked sand under his boots.

Most of the time these dreams were all the same – the same impressions, voices, sensations. Occasionally though, there was something new. Those times, he would turn the new detail over and over in his mind, massaging it and it would appear in his next dream, well formed in detail. John knew that he was fortunate, in the general sense of things. He had known other soldiers with PTSD in varying degrees of severity. His was manifested through these nighttime dreams and nocturnal panic attacks. Occasionally he would have the odd day where his memories from Afghanistan were at the forefront of his thoughts and there was nothing he could do to banish them. On those days, and they were infrequent, he struggled to push through the fog and go about his life, but the veneer of sadness haunted him.

He finished jotting down his account of this latest dream and replaced the notebook in the cupboard. Sleep was out of the question at this point, he knew. He might as well head over to the hospital and begin his day. Sighing, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulling aside the mosquito netting. Thirty minutes later, John was dressed and in the hospital canteen, pouring himself a cup of tea and adding milk. His toast popped up in the toaster next to him and he grabbed it, along with a banana, and headed to the nurses station to check the board. Adelaide had finished her shift and had been replaced by another nurse, Jenny – a formidable and no nonsense Scottish woman. Jenny was currently trying to sort out a scrum of people that had crowded around the desk. As he came up closer to the desk, he recognized a face in the group.

“Mike! Mike Stamford?” The round-faced and balding man turned and saw John, a big grin breaking out. Mike Stamford had been a casual mate of John’s when they were in medical school, often studying in the same group. John hadn’t seen Mike since they had finished their foundation training. John had spent two more years at St. Pancras hospital training as a trauma surgeon before signing up for the Royal Army Medical Corps 254th Medical Unit.

“John Watson! Of all the gin joints in the world, eh?” Mike broke away from the group and came over to John, shaking his hand. “How are you, mate?”

“Brilliant, Mike, thanks. You just arrived?”

“Yeah,” he gestured with his thumb to the small group behind him. “We’re the new recruits.”

“Well, welcome,” said John. “Jenny here will get you all sorted. Come find me later and we can catch up?” They shook hands again and John circled around the desk to look at the board and start his rounds.

The morning passed quickly – they had five new cases of Cholera walk in before lunchtime, and before the day was done, John had set a broken arm, treated a second degree burn, sutured a few minor lacerations, and performed a tonsillectomy on a twelve year old boy with an extremely inflamed pair of tonsils. John was scrubbing out after seeing the patient transferred to the after-care unit. The blood in his veins was buzzing and his every muscle felt jumpy with adrenaline. He missed surgery, and even something as simple and minor as a tonsillectomy gave him the same rush as a more complicated case like repairing a pneumothorax. The facilities at Kibogora were minimal and only suited for the most minor of surgeries. Patients requiring more complex procedures had to be transported to Kigali. John knew that the aid he was able to give here was important, especially for the communities who had gone so long with an understaffed hospital. But _damn_ , he missed surgery.

John’s stomach gave a loud rumble, reminding him that it was nearly 5 PM and his cup of tea and toast had been many, many hours ago. He finished washing up and headed over to after-care to check on his young patient. After assuring himself that the boy was sleeping peacefully, he went in search of Mike to see if he was up for some dinner. John found him in one of the main wards, assisting a nurse with the settling a cholera patient into bed and starting an IV line for fluids. He caught Mike’s eye and gestured his head towards the nurses station just outside the door. Mike nodded and John left to make a few chart notes.

A few minutes later Mike joined him at the desk. “You free for a bite of dinner?”

“Absolutely famished,” said John. “Jenny, we’re headed down to the canteen for a bit. Send someone down if you need us.”

“Sure thing, doc,” she said, waving them off.

The canteen wasn’t set up to serve hot meals all day long, but a few of the women from the nearby village prepared dinner for the hospital staff every evening. The food didn’t vary much from day to day, but it was always delicious. Throughout the rest of the day, there was hot coffee and tea, as well as a small assortment of fruit, dried nuts, basics like bread, peanut butter, and tins of beans and fish. Every few weeks the WHO shipped in non-perishable food items for the staff, since they couldn’t exactly nip down to Tesco.

Tonight’s dinner was the ever-present _ugali_ , a starchy paste made from maize and water. There was also a bean stew flavoured with _berbere_ spice, cabbage, and fried plantains. John and Mike filled their plates, and sat at one of the tables, tucking into their dinner. They ate in silence for a couple minutes, enjoying the hot meal after a long day. Eventually John broke the silence.

“So how long have you been with the WHO? The last I heard, you were set up in a posh private practice in Sheffield.” Mike laughed.

“I was starting to feel guilty. Also, one of my partners at the practice went legit, back to full time locum work.”

“What, does orthopaedics not pay as well as it used to?” John joked.

“I suppose it does. A year ago the remaining partner in our practice offered to buy me out, and I took him up on it. I don’t think I was happy there anymore. I found myself wishing for a more self-effacing form of medicine.”

“Well, I suppose you found it. This sort of work is nothing if not humbling, that’s for bloody sure.”

“Yeah, I’m realising that. So I signed up a year ago and since then have been mostly working in Croatia, Turkey, and a few other places over there. This is my first posting in Africa.”

“You had a stopover in Kigali?”

“Yeah – a week to do some training, get my papers sorted, et cetera.”

“Well Kibogora is quaint enough. We’re mostly seeing cases of cholera these days, with the odd cuts and broken bones. We’re the only hospital for seventy kilometres, so we get most of the traffic around here. It’s mostly triage work, aside from the cholera. We also get the occasional case of yellow fever. Our operating theatre is very basic, so the tonsillectomy I did this afternoon will be about the most interesting thing we can do here.”

“Well I’m here and happy to help with whatever is needed.”

“Cheers, then.” They ate for a few more minutes in silence.

“So how did you end up here? You were in and out Afghanistan for, what, five years?”

“Yeah, five years, three months, seventeen days, and four hours.”

“Not that you were counting, of course.”

“Oh I was counting every second I was in that sodding desert.”

“If you hated it so much, why did you keep signing up?”

“I hated it, but I also loved it,” John thought for a moment, trying to formulate his thoughts into words. “It was like a drug, working over there. I loved the work – fast paced, the surgeries and the most rudimentary of medical work. The adrenaline rush was a high that I was chasing every hour of every day. When I finished a tour and went home, I would find myself bored and listless. Each break, I would think about calling it quits and finding work somewhere in England. But I was miserable. All I could think about was my next hit. And so I kept signing up for more tours. I didn’t know how to live among civilians and I couldn’t imagine working with them.” He shrugged. “But I also hated it. It’s not like back home, or even here, where a patient comes in and the chances of them walking out again are higher than their chances of going down to the morgue. On the front, you were seeing the worst of it, and more often than not, there was very little we could do for them. The facilities weren’t always great, so it sometimes felt like we were set up for failure. I lost so many mates and people I knew and had worked with before. In normal medical work, you’re working on strangers. Over there, you’re trying to save your mates.” Mike was shaking his head sympathetically.

“I don’t know how you did it, John. I mean, I thank you for it. But I don’t know how you managed it for so long.” John let out a dry, humourless, laugh.

“Neither do I.”

“So why did you finally stop? What made you decide your last tour was really your last?”

  

* * *

_Three years prior_

_Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan_

John was sitting on his bunk in the room he shared with Jim and Reese, two other doctors in the RAMC 254th. He had just gotten off a thirteen-hour shift in the trauma centre. There had been three patients to come in during that time and all were resting in the ICU after coming through their surgeries. John had scrubbed into a laparotomy to repair some damage after a young private had taken a bullet to the abdomen. They had been able to save the one kidney, but the other had been well ripped to shreds. He had also gone on a transport, an incoming patient had been in bad condition and the trauma czar had wanted a surgeon to go along in case they needed to stabilize him before transporting him back to the hospital at Camp Bastion. It had been a successful shift, but John was ready for the break. He scrubbed at his dry and tired eyes. His scrubs felt sweaty and dirty, and he could use a shower. He sniffed under the neck of the t-shirt under his scrub top. _Ugh. Definitely a shower._

The incoming trauma alarm sounded across the compound. John wasn’t on duty though, so he ignored it and stood, heading towards the shower. He was just pulling off his scrub top, when there was a loud pounding on his door.

“Captain Watson! Captain Watson!” the voice shouted urgently.

John strode to the door and pulled it open to reveal a winded lieutenant. “What is it,” he barked.

“Incoming trauma, sir.”

“I’m not on duty, lieutenant. Go and find Captain Reeves.”

“Sir, you’ll want to come for this. It’s Squadron Leader Woods, sir. He’s been injured.”

 _Mattie_. John’s stomach dropped and his heart seized. “I’ll be right there.” He grabbed a fresh scrub top from his cupboard and pulled it over his head as he left the room.

The transport had already left to retrieve Matt from the airbase. John paced in the reception bay, awaiting the ambulance that would bring Matt to the hospital. He didn’t know anything about his condition or what had happened. _They should be here by now_ thought John, frantically trying to keep himself from flying out of his skin.

Matthew Woods was John’s best mate – they had grown up next door to each other and had gone through school together. As young boys they had played together every day after school and most of the weekend. They were friends, brothers, and on some level, soul mates. They had always shared everything: homework, punishments, a set of walkie talkies, a sleeping bag on camping trips, even a pet newt. Matt had enlisted in the RAF as soon as he was able, leaving John behind in medical school. They had made a blood oath the night before Matt left for recruit training, that John would join him as soon as he had finished school and his training.

Matt knew every inch of John’s soul and John knew every single corner of Matt’s. John loved Mattie more than he loved his own mother or sister. They had both known that serving in Afghanistan held a certain amount of risk. Each time that John had mentioned to Matt that he, John, might be done with the military life, Matt had talked him into one more tour.

“Johnny, I still feel like I have work to do here. As long as I can feel useful, as long as I’m still able to offer all that I can, I need to keep doing this,” he had implored one night over pints back home. It was a rare occurrence that they were on leave at the same time. There was a month a year ago when their time at home had overlapped. John was beginning to grow weary of the back to back tours. He thought maybe he’d like to find someone nice, settle down, maybe start a family and practice in local hospital where he would see more than just blown off limbs and gunshot wounds. But he knew that he couldn’t leave the military if Mattie was still fighting in Afghanistan. He had finally steeled himself to ask Matt about it. He thought maybe he could convince him that they had done their duty, served their time, and it was time to try and start a new life. But Matt wasn’t done and didn’t want a new life. John had always suspected that Matt was afraid of what he would do without the military. It was the only life that he knew, and life on the outside was full of unknowns.

So they had stayed in and signed up for another tour. John knew, in the back of his mind, that waiting for Matt to say “when” might possibly mean that they were consigning their lives to the military until they were forced to leave: by age, being wounded, or death. As John stood in the ambulance bay at Camp Bastion Hospital, he knew that there was a chance that today might be the beginning of the end of John’s military career.

The doors flew open as several gurneys were wheeled into the hospital.

“Talk to me!” shouted Major Alan Robbins, the trauma czar on duty, as he strode into the room.

“Three wounded, sir,” called the medic wheeling the last gurney in. “Their transport chopper was shot down as it was trying to take off. Two casualties, KIA.”

“All right. Bay one, two, and three,” Robbins pointed at the gurneys in turn, directing them to their respective triage bays. John inspected each as they rolled by. Matt was lying in the last one and he rushed over to it.

“Mattie,” John breathed, clinging to the side rails of the gurney. He followed the medic and doctors into the triage bay.

“Hayes, you take bay one. Reese, bay two. Dr White, you’re with me in bay three,” Robbins gave his directives and the teams set to work over the soldiers. He noticed John standing by the side of the gurney. “Watson. You’re off duty. We’ve got this from here. Go get a shower and some sleep.”

“Sir, I...I need to be here. This man is my friend.” _Friend. As if that simple word that could used to describe Mattie._

“I don’t think so, Watson. You can wait outside, that’s an order.”

“Alan. Please I need to help. Please.” John was begging now, a pleading note in his voice. He didn’t even care. Robbins must have noticed, because he only paused a half second.

“Fine. You can assist. But I don’t want a word out of you and I want you to do as you’re ordered. Is that understood?” John nodded, his eyes never leaving Matt’s face. He was swaddled in layers of white cotton blankets, staving off the chill of shock and blood loss. Aside from the cuts on his face and trickle of blood from beneath his hairline, John thought he looked like he might have been asleep.

“All right, let’s see what we’re dealing with here.”

With his heart in his throat and tears in his eyes, John acted as nurse, helping remove the blankets, taking Matt’s vitals, and handing Robbins gauze pads when he called for them. There was a lot of blood. It took a couple minutes to sort out the source of it. There was obvious abdominal damage, but without scans it was difficult to tell how dire it was. The immediate concern was Matt’s left leg. It was crushed – bone fragments protruding from the flesh and blood leaking from severed arteries. It was clear to everyone crowded around the gurney that the leg would have to be amputated.

“Watson, do what you can to stop the bleeding from that femoral artery.” John’s hands shook as he wrapped the tourniquet cuff around Matt’s upper thigh. As the cuff began to inflate, the bleeding slowed dramatically.

“Okay, BP is coming back up. We’re still losing blood somewhere though. It’s got to be internal. Let’s get some scans before we take him into surgery,” Robbins barked out the orders and everyone moved to carry them out. “Watson, you can scrub in, but stay out of the way.”

 

John stood at the sink in the scrub area, hands braced on the side of the sink, and the cool metal slick under his sweating palms. His chest was tight with unshed tears and his throat burned. He felt like he was drowning in sorrow, a tide that he could not fight against. A sob escaped and he let a few tears fall. “Matt,” he whispered to the quiet room. “You’ve got to pull through. I _need_ you to pull through. I can’t begin to live without you.” On the other side of the window, Matt was being wheeled into the surgical theatre and a nurse poked her head around the corner into the scrub room.

“He’s conscious and asking for you, Dr Watson,”

“I’ll be right there,” John wiped away the remaining tears, scrubbed in as fast as he could and rushed into the OR. He knelt by Matt’s head, setting his bare hand in his hair.

“Matt,” he whispered. “Mattie, I’m here.” He brushed Matt’s hair back away from his forehead. He had beautiful hair – thick curls in a wild shade of orange. It was so soft under John’s hand.

“John,” Matt’s eyes fluttered open, a glaze of pain and narcotics evident in the green irises. “John, I wrecked the chopper. My CO is going to be so hacked off with me.”

“Shhh,” John smiled at him. Matt’s sense of humour was one of the many things John loved about him. “You may get latrine duty for a few weeks, but you’ll be fine. It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

“No, it wouldn’t,” he licked his cracked lips. “John, I’m sorry, this is all my fault. We should have gotten out of this hellhole years ago. You were right.”

“Listen to me, Matthew Woods. I would follow you anywhere and do it willingly. You didn’t do anything. We had...no we _have_ work to do. You’re going to be fine, you’ll recover, and we’ll get back to work.” He felt tears building again.

“I think it may be time for us to request a transfer though,” Matt tried to smile. “Johnny,” he whispered, and John tightened his grip on Matt’s hair. He brought his other hand up and gripped Matt’s cold one in his own. “Johnny, I’m sorry we never had our time. I love you, y’know? I love you. I’m sorry we never had our chance.”

John was aware of the crowd of doctors and nurses listening, but he didn’t care. The hand in Matt’s hair slid down to cup his cheek. “I know, you stupid git. I know, and I love you too.” Matt’s eyelids began to flutter again. Above them, an alarm began beeping noisily. “Mattie,” John said sternly, squeezing his hand tightly. “Mattie, listen to me. You stay with me, okay? Don’t you leave me. We’ll fix you up, and then you and I can get out of here. We’ll go home and see our mums. Have a pint. You just stay with me, damnit!”

“Dr Watson, we have to put him under now.” Robbins had come to stand behind him. John nodded, squeezed Matt’s hand one more time, and stood. “Do you want to assist? Dr White can do it if you’re not up to it.”

“No, I’m fine,” John said forcefully, looking Robbins directly in the eye.

“All right then. Let’s get to work”

The first hour of surgery passed in a blur. The orthopaedic surgeon came in, and John watched in horror as Matt’s leg was amputated. That strong, muscular leg that he had used to climb trees, run races, and catch John in a leglock when they were wrestling. John was nearly sick as the surgeon cauterized the blood vessels. The smell of Matt’s burning flesh was acrid in the air. With that source of bleeding staunched, Robbins set to opening Matt’s abdomen to repair the internal damage. He and John worked fast, mopping up blood, taking stock of the damage and making a plan.

“That kidney will have to go. The spleen is bleeding, but we may be able to repair it. _Damnit_ ,” Robbins swore. “Where is all this blood coming from?”

John had started to sweat under his cap. His hands were shaking with repressed emotion, and the muscles in his back were starting to seize from the tension. _Disassociate! Disassociate!_ John tried to separate his love for the man that lay on the table before him from the abdominal cavity his hands were currently deep inside.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Alarms were going off from monitors all around him. Robbins tossed blood soaked laparotomy pads to the floor at his feet.

“His blood pressure is dropping.”

“Watson, have you found that bleeder yet?”

“Hanging another two units of blood.”

“Not yet. Come on, come on!”

“Damnit. Forceps please. I need sutures here.”

“I got it. Right here, under the spleen.”

“Can you get it under control?”

“There’s too much blood, I can’t see anything!”

“Let’s get some suction in here.”

“Pulse ox is crashing. BP is 60 over 40.”

“There has got to be some other leak in here. Where is all this damn blood coming from?”

“Here! The right gastric artery is shot to hell.”

“Can you repair it?”

Before he could answer, the sound that every surgeon dreads, the sound that haunts every surgeon’s nightmares, rang out, piercing John’s heart.

“He’s flatlined!”

“Charge the paddles.”

John had backed away from Matt’s body. He was covered in his blood. He felt like he was floating above himself, up near the ceiling, looking down on the scene. Robbins was issuing orders, using the defibrillator, attempting to revive Matt. John went to the end of the gurney, stripping off his latex gloves, tossing them on the floor. Once again he dropped down to a crouch, bringing himself face to face with Matt. He reached out a finger and caressed Matt’s lips. They had turned pale, so different from their normal warm red. John loved Matt’s smile – it started at his mouth and reached all the way up to his mossy green eyes.

“Mattie,” John whispered. “Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me.” Tears began to slip down John’s face catching on his chin before falling to the floor, mixing with the blood.

Robbins continued to speak emphatically above him, alarms sounding, and nurses rushing around.

Then quiet fell. The tone of the alarm changed, everyone had gone quiet.

“Fuck. _Fuck!_ ” Robbins threw down his forceps and they clattered to the floor. John caressed Matt’s pale cheek, his hand drifting upwards into his soft hair. Then he stood and grasped the cold hand laying on the gurney, giving it a squeeze. He looked up at the clock on the wall.

“Time of death,” his voice caught on a sob in his throat. “23:37.”

 

The next couple of months were a blur to John. His co-workers didn’t know what to do with him or what words of comfort to offer him. He supposed that he must have worked, but he wasn’t aware of getting up for shifts, scrubbing into surgeries, or checking on patients. He may have grieved, in between those surgeries and patient rounds. Two days after Matt’s death, his commanding officer had ordered John to speak with one of the psychologists in the hospital. He sat there, in the woman’s office, for the obligatory hour. He knew what he was suffering from had no diagnosis code, nothing she could put in his chart. A broken heart was not a medical condition or something that could be treated.

Matt’s body was transported out later that week, sent home to his mother. John had refused to watch as they loaded the body onto the plane. He had gone down to the morgue once, the afternoon after. He had been hoping that seeing Matt’s body would help him to grieve. But the body on the slab down there was not Matt’s. There was no laughter in those eyes, no quirk in the lips, no warmth in the limbs. That body belonged to a stranger, and John never wanted to see it again. He had considered asking for leave to return home for the funeral, but all he wanted to do was finish up the two months left of his tour and get the hell out of Afghanistan.

Finally, John boarded his own transport airplane out of Camp Bastion. He was alive. He was leaving alive and never coming back. He only wished that he had something to look forward to back in England.

 

* * *

 

_Present day_

“John? Hey! John!”

“Huh? Oh! Sorry, I guess I was out woolgathering,” John shook his head to clear his thoughts.

“Sorry, what did you ask me?”

“I was just curious what made you finally give it up?”

“Just finally one too many casualties, I suppose.” He shrugged, and Mike, perhaps sensing that there was more to it than John was revealing, let the subject drop.


	5. Chapter 5

_04 June, 12:17 Central Africa Time Zone_

_Gafunzo Project dig site, Gafunzo, Rwanda_

The sun was at its zenith, heating the air and turning the hard packed dirt on the ground into dust. Sherlock looked up and shaded his eyes, his gaze locked downfield on the young goalie. Dribbling the football at his feet, he passed it to the player to his left, keeping pace with the young boy. With a swift instep kick, the football sailed through the air, past the arms of the goalie, and into the makeshift goal. The players on the scoring team cheered, raising their arms in the air and running around the pitch. Sherlock celebrated with a small smile, and jogged back up the pitch. He wasn’t normally one for exercise, but recognized the both the physical importance of staying fit and also the relief of stress that came with a sustained elevated BPM. He certainly wasn’t one for group exercise, usually favouring a solitary swim in UCL’s lap pool or long run around his neighbourhood. But when a group of young boys from the nearby village had shyly approached the group of researchers taking a lunch break and produced a worn and underinflated football, he shrugged his shoulders and joined the handful of his co-workers who were heading in the direction of an open field in the distance.

The first week on site was going well. The team had arrived close to on time after departing from Kigali and stopping only once to change a flat tire on the van holding their gear. Camp had been erected, the small village of tents sat fifty yards from the excavation site. Each researcher had their own tent: big enough for a single cot, small table, and their luggage. A much larger tent of cream-coloured canvas held their gear and tools, folding tables set up, waiting to receive the first round of excavated material for study. The largest tent, holding even more tables and benches, served as a makeshift common area where the group would take their meals, play cards in the evening, or spread out the papers and computers to work. Across an open, grassy field, several tarps were spread over the partially excavated work site, with another cream canvas tent set up over one end of the site. The first afternoon had been dedicated to setting up camp and preparing for the work that would begin the following day. Early that first morning, the team plotted out the grid that would mark the excavation. Since then, the work had been routine, if a bit slow. The first few days had seen a handful of onlookers coming to camp, but the visitors had been there out of interest, rather than hostility. Some of them had limited French, which allowed Sherlock and the other team members with some handling of the language to communicate, but more often than not the interpreters had to be used.

This afternoon would be the point at which they would begin to excavate some of the first remains and remove them to the tables at camp for further study. Sherlock was cautiously excited – it was always a bit thrilling to extract the first pieces from the ground. The team had taken a break for lunch (peanut butter and honey sandwiches) and were sitting under the shade of a tree at the edge of the site, sipping from their canteens. He had been anxious to get back to work when the children had walked up.

Working closely with a group of relative strangers required an adjustment in Sherlock’s attitude about socialization. While he would have normally kept to himself and worked on his own, these sorts of digs required teamwork and cooperation. After his very first dig as a young graduate student, he had realised that there was no way he could get by on these projects if he isolated himself and ignored his fellow researchers. He was fortunate that most of the time these projects only lasted a couple of months, but during that time, he adjusted his habits, erring on the side of polite, yet distant. So, when the footballers had arrived, he had gotten up and followed the team to the makeshift football pitch and joined the game.

Back in the game, Sherlock was watching closely, following the ball, and preparing to intercept the player from the other team that was headed towards him. He reached out with his foot, tapping the ball away. The boy deftly brought the ball back in front of him and continued on towards the goal. This end of the pitch was bordered on one side by a small copse of trees, and as Sherlock ran after the boy, he came into the shade. The boy darted away with the ball, but before Sherlock could pursue him, his foot caught in a raised tree root. He fell to the ground and hit the dirt hard, landing painfully on his right hip, his breath escaping his lungs in a forced rush.

“ _Nuuuhhh,_ ” he moaned as he rolled over to his back. “Bugger.” He lay in the dirt for a second, catching his breath back as the erstwhile footballers gathered around him.

“You all right mate?” asked Lincoln reaching out a hand to help him into a sitting position.

“ _Mmmm_ ,” Sherlock breathed through his nose. His hip was pained, and his ankle was already swelling. The real pain though was coming from his right calf, where he felt a trickle of blood. Steeling himself, he looked down his leg towards his ripped trouser leg. The gash wasn’t so long, but it was deep and bleeding quite a freely. It was throbbing in time with his heartbeat and he had nothing on hand to staunch the flow of blood. “Bugger,” he swore again. The children crowded around made noises in a mix of disgust at the blood and glee at the Sherlock’s swearing.

“Can you walk on it?” asked Chas. 

“I think so. Does anyone have anything to mop up some of this blood?” Lincoln handed him the bandana that had been tied around his neck.

“It’s a might bit sweaty, but don’t worry about the blood. I’ve got some spares in my kit.”

Lincoln and Chas reached down and hoisted Sherlock to his feet. He tentatively put weight on the injured leg and bit the inside of his cheek in pain. Bugger again. His hip and ankle were painful and blood continued to flow under his pant leg, but he was able to hobble back towards camp. “Can someone get Molly? I’m not a medic, but I think I may require some stitches,” he said, trying to affect an air of placid serenity, while trying not to feel faint.

They made it back to camp and Sherlock sat down heavily on one of the benches in the dining tent, the offending leg stretched out in front of him. Molly, summoned from her tent, sank to the ground next to him and peeled back the ruined trousers. “Definitely stitches,” she said, pressing a gauze pad to the gash. “I haven’t sewn someone up in years, though. And this isn’t exactly a sterile environment,” she brushed her bangs back from her face. “What did you cut it on?”

Sherlock sucked in a breath as she applied more pressure to stop the bleeding. “A bloody stick. I tripped over a tree root and landed on a bloody stick.”

Lestrade had joined the group of researchers gathered around the table. “There’s a small hospital not twenty minutes up the road. Does he need to go there?”

Molly nodded. “That would probably be best. Under better circumstances I’d stitch you up myself, but with a hospital so close by, you may as well go there.” She affixed a fresh gauze pad to his leg with some medical tape.

“Let me go start up the van,” said Lestrade.

Molly stood up. “Well as your medic, I suppose I’ll tag along,” she laughed lightly.

Sherlock grumbled as he got to his feet again. Perfect. He thought. Not even a week into the project and I’ve gone and made a ponce of myself. Let’s make it a field trip! Molly took his arm to help him into the passenger’s seat of the van, but he pulled away sharply. “I’m not an invalid.” He was embarrassed to be looking so weak.

“I know, Sherlock,” said Molly soothingly as she shut the van door on him. Lestrade set off down the road, seemingly driving into every pothole as he went. Sherlock swore again, pain reverberating the length of his leg. “Could you perhaps not hit every stone and bump, please?” He laughed and they bounced into another divot in the road. Sherlock was sure he saw a satisfied grin on his Lestrade’s face as he emphatically swore again.

 

* * *

 

_04 June, 12:17 Central Africa Time Zone_

_Kibogora Hospital, Kirambo, Rwanda_

 

John was energized. So far today they had discharged seven healthy patients and only two new ones had been admitted. A morning in the black was a good one. He bent down over the prone form of a male patient in his forties. The man had been admitted four days ago with the beginnings of cholera: fever, diarrhoea, and severe dehydration. Now, he was smiling, weakly, but smiling all the same. John helped him into a sitting position, reclining against his pillows.

"Would you like to try and sip some water?" John asked in French.

" _Merci, docteur_ ," the man said, reaching for the cup the nurse passed him.

"Take it slowly," John said, putting his hand on the man's shoulder. "If this sits well with you, we can try a bit of dry toast for lunch. How does that sound?" He turned to the nurse to make sure she had heard. She nodded at John, making a note in the chart and he turned to the next patient.

The remainder of the morning passed as just as easily. John went from ward to ward, making the rounds of all his patients. Checking to see how they faired over night, who had passed through the worst of the infection and simply needed hydrating and who still had a long road to recovery. A few new patients came in shortly before John was due to take his lunch break. Two broken fingers were splinted and one infected spider bite was lanced and it was time for lunch.

John was standing at the nurses station, signing some charts before he headed down the canteen. Behind him, someone cleared their throat.

"If you’re here to be seen, please sign in on the sheet over there," said John in French, gesturing to the clipboard with his biro without turning around.

"Pardon, but I believe I need to see a doctor," replied a deep voice, the English accent catching John off guard. He straightened up and turned to face the fellow Englishman behind him. The scowl on the man's face was tense, but pronounced. _The irate fellow Englishman_ , he corrected. John swept his eyes over the man, looking for any obvious injury and catching sight of his ripped and bloody trousers. He knelt down at the man’s feet and carefully peeled back the fabric, revealing the hastily applied gauze dressing.

“Ah,” John said looking up at Sherlock. “Yes, I suppose you do need to see a doctor. Why don’t you follow me?” He led Sherlock down the hall to an empty exam room.

“Have a seat Mr...”

“ _Doctor_ Holmes,” said Sherlock, his scowl becoming even fiercer. He eased back onto the gurney, bracing himself on his uninjured leg.

“My apologies, _Doctor_ Holmes.” John rolled his eyes as he turned to retrieve some nitrile gloves from the cabinet behind him. “So what happened here?”

“Football injury,” Sherlock responded tersely.

“Ah, well the local children do tend to play a bit rougher than we Brits are used to,” John smiled and picked up a pair of large surgical scissors. He gestured to Sherlock’s ruined trousers with them. “Do you mind?” Sherlock shrugged and John cut away the fabric. He worked in silence for a few minutes, peeling away the gauze and tape and carefully prodding the gash to ascertain the depth. Sherlock inhaled sharply through his teeth. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Sherlock said tightly. John bent back to the leg, working a little bit more gently.

“So, Dr Holmes—”

“Sherlock.”

“So, Sher— wait.” He looked up. “Sherlock? Is that really your name?”

“It’s a family name,” he said, picking an imaginary piece of lint of his sleeve.

John laughed. “So, Sherlock. What brings a man such as yourself to this neck of the woods?”

“Research. I’m at a dig site over in Gafunzo.”

“I had heard that some academics had wandered into rural Rwanda, but I hadn’t heard that they were British expats.” Sherlock winced and gave a pained noise as John began to irrigate the wound. He put his hand on Sherlock’s leg to steady it. The flesh under his fingers was warm and firm, and the hair dark and curly. The shin muscles were tensed in shock, but strong nonetheless. "How long have you been in Rwanda?"

"Ten days."

"Oh really? And how are you liking it so far?" he asked as he administered a local anaesthetic.

"I'm finding it very painful."

"The anaesthetic should be working in a moment and then I can suture you up," John said. "It's not usually so dangerous a place. Just try and stay away from roving bands of football hooligans."

When there was no response, John looked up and caught Sherlock regarding him with luminescent grey-blue eyes.

"What happened during your tour in Afghanistan that set you on this vigilante mission to save lives?" Sherlock asked abruptly. His tone was almost accusatory.

"I beg your pardon?” John was taken aback by this sudden and unbelievably personal turn in the conversation.

“Well it’s obvious you served in the military. And it’s quite clear you’re on some sort of personal mission.”

“But what do you mean 'vigilante'? How do you know I'm not just here because I actually enjoy helping people? And how did you know I served in Afghanistan?” his hackles were raised at being pinned so easily, and by a total stranger no less. As a result, when he poked at the leg wound in order to check that the local anaesthetic was working, he did it a little more forcefully than he should have. “And how is that any of your business anyway?"

Sherlock pointed at the name badge on John's chest. “I saw your name on the patient board, Dr Watson, above the registration desk. You've seen a lot of patients today, taken some of the more difficult and involved cases, including the only surgery in the last week. You have also seen almost double the number of patients than most of the other doctors on the board. You trend more to the triage cases, over the Cholera, indicating the trauma work is what you enjoy and are comfortable with. You have a soldier’s haircut, and your posture indicates military. Given your approximate age I’d deduce you served four, maybe five years? Now why would someone, who had sewn up soldiers for half a decade be working in the remote hills of Rwanda?” He paused, giving John a chance to say something. When he didn’t, he ploughed on.

“I say, 'vigilante,' because the number of patients you have seen already today, coupled with the dark circles under your eyes, indicate that you work long hours, longer than perhaps necessary, and work harder to see as many patients as you can.”

“And Afghanistan?” was all John could think to say in response.

“Lucky guess, I suppose,” said Sherlock. He pursed his lips, contemplating John. “I suppose it’s not any of my business why you’re here. I was merely attempting to make conversation.”

"Well maybe you should bloody well keep your assumptions to yourself next time, hmm? Maybe a lull in the conversation wouldn't be such a bad thing?" John snapped.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat as John bent over his leg again and began suturing up the wound. They were both silent as he worked, John making tidy stitches. _Who the hell did this bloke think he was? Making unfounded assumptions about him and his motives. Well, maybe not so unfounded. Everything he had said was the truth, or very nearly._ John didn't think he had met anyone as rude or arrogant as this Sherlock Holmes. He had caused John to lose his temper and now he was extremely embarrassed. He always had been able to keep a cool head and almost never lost it. John’s bedside manner was impeccable, he knew it was. But this man, this rude, posh, tall, handsome man had forced him to shout.

That last thought made him pause, forceps frozen in mid-air. After a moment, Sherlock’s leg twitched beneath his hands and brought him back to himself. _Handsome?_ He sat up to pluck a fresh gauze pad from the tray on his left, and using this movement as a cover, he stole a glance at the pale, angular face. _Definitely handsome._ He had always been able to physically appreciate both men and women, and was familiar with both. In some alternate universe, perhaps he and Mattie would have taken their relationship to the next level, but in this world the timing had never been right.

His heart gave a small twist as he thought of his childhood friend. In the years since his death, John had learned to live without Matt. He had created a new life for himself, practicing medicine, spending time with his mum, his sister Harry, and her partner Clara, playing with his nieces, finding new hobbies. He knew that Matt would want him to move on with his life, make new friends and find someone else to love. How had he gotten to thinking about Matt?

He tied the last suture and clipped the line. “All done,” he announced, straightening up. Sherlock was still scowling down at him, arms crossed, eyes watching him closely. John reached for a tube of antibac ointment, smearing some carefully on the wound with a cotton tipped applicator. He smoothed a large, adhesive bandage over the stitches, his movements sure but gentle, the way one would touch a spooked horse. He stood, stripping off his nitrile gloves with a snap, tossed them into the rubbish bin, and leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms and feet at the ankles in an attempt to appear relaxed.

“How did you know all that?” he asked, looking Sherlock squarely in the eye. He refused to back down from this man.

“I told you, the patient board, your haircut, the – “ 

“No, I mean how did you come up with all that from those inconsequential details?”

“There’s no such thing as an inconsequential detail. I observe things, take note, and deduce.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re a real riot at parties,” John said dryly.

“You think I’m often invited to parties? Would you invite me to one?” John didn’t respond. “Point made.”

John paused for a minute, gathering his courage. “I’m sorry I swore at you.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“I don’t lose my temper often. I apologize for behaving rudely.”

Sherlock arched one eyebrow. “Apology accepted.”

John gave him a pointed look and Sherlock stared mutely back at him. The silence stretched.

“If you are waiting for me to apologize for observing and speaking the truth --”

“Apology accepted.”

Sherlock spluttered. “I was not apologizing! I don’t make a habit of apologizing for pointing out things that are so blatantly obvious.”

John continued to stare at Sherlock. Then he plucked a Biro from his breast pocket, along with a prescription pad. He scrawled on it, tore off the top page and handed it to Sherlock.

“A light pain medication. Your leg will be sore for about a week. I also noticed your ankle was a bit swollen – it’s just bruised. You’ll want to ice that and be sure to elevate it tonight. The meds will help with the pain there as well. Try and stay off your feet the next couple of days while sutures begin to heal. I did an excellent job stitching that up so you won’t scar too much, and I’ll be right pissed if you tear the stitches and ruin my handiwork.”

“So no more football?”

“Try and stay off the pitch, at least for the next month.” John pushed away from the counter, coming to stand at the end of the gurney at Sherlock’s feet. “Do you have someone to drive you back to...wherever you came from?”

“Yes. A few of the researchers I’m working with drove me down here from camp.”

“If you take that prescription up to the dispensary, they’ll fill it for you. They can also give you a couple instant cold compresses for your ankle if you need them. Keep that wound clean and dry, replacing the bandage as needed. Come back in two weeks and I’ll take the stitches out for you.” He stood there, gaze still locked with Sherlock’s, the tension in the room palpable.

“Thank you, Dr Watson.”

“My pleasure, Dr Holmes.”

 

John stood at the nurses station, watching Sherlock leave the hospital with his two co-workers. He tried in vain to ignore how humanizing the slight limp in his gait was.

“Daaaaayyyymn,” said a voice in John’s ear. He turned to see Chloe, an American doctor on the team. She was none too subtly ogling Sherlock. “That is a nice looking man. Friend of yours, doc?”

“No,” he rushed to say. “Definitely not.”

“Who’s he with?” The expat community in Rwanda was a close one and word travelled fast when a new group arrived. Most of the aid groups knew and looked out for each other. A new batch would be immediately noticed.

“Research group from England. They’re working up in Gafunzo.”

“Well, what’s his story?” Chloe indicated her head towards Sherlock.

“Twenty centimetre laceration to the right calf. I put in two dozen sutures and wrote him a ‘scrip for some painkillers.”

“No, I meant what his deal? I could’ve read all of that in his chart. ”

“Oh, right. Definitely rude. Presumptuous, obnoxious, and a right toff.” _Nice arse though,_ said a voice in John’s head.

“You know, doc, when I was a little girl growing up in Texas, my momma used to tell me the boys that pulled my braids and called me names were the ones that really wanted to kiss me.” Chloe waggled her eyebrows as he gasped in surprise.

“Ha! Not bloody likely! I have never met someone who was so conceited, boorish, and ill-mannered in my whole life.”

Chloe laughed. “You’re beginning to repeat yourself, dear,” and gave him a wink.

 _Hmph._ John thought. _Not bloody likely._


	6. Chapter 6

_16 June, 13:25 Central Africa Time Zone_

_Gafunzo Project dig site, Gafunzo, Rwanda_

Sweat dripped down Sherlock’s back, running under the bandana tied around his neck. He reached up and swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. It was an exceptionally hot day, the hottest they had experienced since arriving in Rwanda three weeks ago. The sunshade strung up over the dig site was blocking out the mid-afternoon sun, but the heat was near unbearable.

He was making sketches of the site as it was laid out before him, his pencil strokes strong and sure. In his mind’s eye he had begun to recreate the scene of chaos, murder, and death that had led up to the resulting gravesite he was standing in. He usually preferred not to give too much thought to the faces and lives of the remains he worked on, but being so immersed in this project had made his normal detachment near impossible. He was finding it hard to ignore the scenes of panic and fright that were edging into his dreams at night. He woke up with the imagined faces of the nameless victims floating in his head.

The team had continued to excavate without him, as he was on doctors orders to limit the amount of bending and stretching he did. He had restricted most of his work to data collection on the remains that had been removed to the research tent over in camp. He detested relying on the other researchers for the digging. But the wound in his leg seemed to be healing, even though the sutures itched like the devil himself and the healing skin felt tight.

“Wotcher, Sherlock!” a voice called out above him, startling him out of morbid reverie. Molly was gently making her way into the shallow cut made by the archaeologists. “How goes it?”

“Just making some preliminary sketches before we start excavating the next level.”

“ _Mmm_. Are you anxious to be able to start helping with the excavation?” she gestured to his leg.  

“I’m anxious to take back the reins on my research. I don’t trust anyone to do my work for me,” he said gruffly. Molly pursued her lips into a tight line.

“We’re all doing our best here, Sherlock. We all care about this work and are doing all we can to help you out.” He made a _hmph_ -ing noise in his throat. “A ‘thank you’ to the team wouldn’t go amiss, you know?”

Sherlock turned to face her, an insincere and mocking smile plastered to his face. “Thank you, Dr Hooper, for not bunging up my work.”

“Don’t mention it.” After spending several weeks now with him, Molly seemed willing to overlook his typically rude behaviour.  He knew, however, that some members of the team were not as forgiving. There was a fair amount of grumbling, but they seemed to grudgingly put up with him. He was not shy to say that he was a brilliant asset to the team, as much as they would like to deny it.

“So, how is your leg?”

“Fine.”

“When do you head back to the hospital to have the sutures removed?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Will Dr Watson be there to take them out?”

“How should I know?” Sherlock kicked a bit at the dirt.  

“He was quite handsome, wouldn’t you say?” asked Molly, adopting an air of casualness.

“If you’re asking me to comment on his objective level of attractiveness, it hardly seems relevant to his skills as a physician. But yes, the man possessed all of the necessary attributes to qualify as instinctually ‘attractive,’” he made air quotes around the word. “His facial features were proportional and symmetrical. His eyes were a rich colour of blue, which is inherently attractive due to its overall rareness in humans. He was physically fit, demonstrating his ability to fight off predators and flee from danger. He had a respectable amount of hair on his head, and his hands were strong and able, again, appealing on an evolutionary level.” He paused in his analysis, looking down at Molly. “However, given your tone, I’m assuming you’re fishing for my personal opinion, and not an academic one. I’m afraid, Dr Hooper, I won’t be falling for your trap.”

“Oh, but you already have, Dr Holmes, in your own way,” she laughed. “I suppose you were your usual charming self with him?”

“Why should I have been charming? The man was sewing up my flesh with a rather sharp needle.”

“Sherlock, you just as well as admitted you found him attractive. Why not put a bit of effort into being more friendly when you see him again?”

“What would come of that?”

“Do you like him?”

“What’s with all these questions? Are you trying to fix me up?” he looked at her suspiciously.

“I suspect you might be a lot nicer to work with if you were shagging someone.” Sherlock gaped at her. “You could at least try flirting with him and see what happens. He might be interested.”

“That’s doubtful. I was quite rude to him.”

“All the more reason to try and be more friendly when you see him again. Chat him up a bit.”

Sherlock shook his head. “This is ridiculous. You have no way of knowing what affect sex would have on my personality.”

“Well it certainly can’t make you any more of a prat than you already are.”

“Just because you and nearly everyone else on this dig project has paired up like bloody animals on Noah’s ark, doesn’t mean that I also need to find a sexual partner.” Now it was Molly’s turn to gape. “Oh yes, I may not be a Casanova, but I observe, Molly, and the sexual tension on this site is thick enough to cut with a plastic butter knife. My sex life is none of anyone’s business, least of all yours.” He climbed out of the excavation site and started to stomp off towards camp. She hurried to catch up with him.

“I’m sorry if I’ve presumed too much – if I’ve insulted you. I had just assumed you were…”

 “I was what, exactly?”

“You know...gay.”

“This societal need to label a person’s sexuality is inane,” he said. “But that’s not the issue here. I hate having my private affairs poked at. I’m a private person and prefer to keep it that way. You all may be willing to have your private lives bandied about like some ridiculous reality show on telly, but I am not.”

“So you are then?”

“Am what?”

“ _Gay_ ,” Molly said, exasperated at having to repeat herself.

“Did you not just hear me tell you that I’d rather not discuss it?”

“If you are, that’s fine. My aunt and her partner are gay and live in Portland, in the States.”

“Well bully for them.”

“It’s just, it would be totally fine if you were gay.”

“I know that.” Molly said nothing, her eyes fixed on him as they continued to amble back towards camp. The silence was deafening, as she appeared to be waiting for him to speak. He exhaled an exasperated sigh. “I really would rather drop this line of questioning, Molly. I am not ashamed of my sexuality, and I do not judge you or anyone else for seeking comfort when we’re taking on this emotionally taxing work during the day. But, for the last time, I’d prefer to be left out of the gossip pool.” She nodded, accepting this, and began to talk about her research, obviously looking for a safer, more neutral topic of conversation.

He had told the truth, that he wasn’t ashamed of his sexuality. But what he wouldn’t admit to anyone else was that he was confused by it. He had been with both male and female partners, though the number of each was quite small. The experiences had all been enlightening and moderately satisfying, but he still couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. It was his observation that the human race was entirely too caught up in sex and the pursuit of it. In the first few experiences he had, he had been upfront with his partners, letting them know that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. He had been in the midst of his graduate studies and had thought it might be about time to try it out. But inevitably, after several weeks of physical encounters, his partners started pushing more and more to spend time together, connect on an emotional level, something he simply did not have the time nor the inclination.  He had tried to explain that his research was the most important thing to him, and while they all seemed like nice, rational people, each one of them had ended the encounters when he had refused to make himself emotionally available to them.

After finishing his Ph.D., Sherlock had tried again. A few times, he met people at a university mixer or some other social event, chat with them for a bit, and then went home with them. Two of those times, he allowed himself to be drawn into what could, objectively, be called a relationship, but usually around week six, he grew bored and ended it. He didn’t know if it was a lack of physical compatibility or if he had simply not found anyone with whom he connected with on a personal level. Either way, he had quit seeking it out. He put no stock on the conventional idea of “fate,” but he thought that if he were meant to be in a committed relationship with another person, man or woman, he would know them when they were presented to him. Sherlock wasn’t willing to place himself on the Kinsey scale; he hated labels. What he would admit was that he had, at one time or another, been physically attracted to both men and women, and that he had engaged in intimate relations with both.

During his musings, they had arrived back at camp. Molly headed off in the direction of the larger tent that served as the de facto common room and dining area. Sherlock, needing to clear his head, opted to head to the tent that held the recently excavated remains. He wanted to conduct some more analysis on one particular set of bones that had been extracted from the site. He felt keyed up after his conversation with Molly, and he knew that work would be one of the only things that would calm his mind. He only hoped the tent would be empty.

Fortunately it was, and he pulled his notebooks, kit, and a box of gloves from the cubby labelled with his name. The sun had sunk halfway down the sky on its descent to the horizon, but he would still have a couple hours to work before he would have to switch on the generator that powered the utility lights in the tent. He pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, flipped open his field notebook, and settled in to work.

It was an hour later, when he felt a tingling sensation on the back of his neck. He paused in his examination of a series of cracked rib bones and reached up the rub at the prickling skin. Behind him came the sound of someone clearing their throat.

“ _Ahem_ ,” and Sherlock turned to find Dr John Watson standing in the open flap of the tent’s entrance, shifting nervously. “All right? Sorry to interrupt. They said I would find you here. You seemed pretty caught up in your…” he trailed off, but gestured to the bones lying on the table. Sherlock wasn’t sure how to react to the doctor’s surprising appearance in his research tent. He defaulted to sarcasm.

“I didn’t realize you made house calls, Dr Watson.”

“I don’t, typically. But I was in the neighbourhood, so I thought I’d pop by and see how your leg was fairing.”

“You were in the neighbourhood?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Well, in a manner of speaking.”

“I see.” They regarded each other across the tent. Sherlock suddenly felt very uncomfortable and he wasn’t sure why. His conversation with Molly earlier was looping in his mind and he suddenly found, uncharacteristically, himself formulating an apology for his behaviour during their first meeting.

“Dr Watson, I should probably apol—“

“So, Dr Holmes, how’s your research—“ they had spoken at the same time, their words tumbling over each other. They paused, and Dr Watson smiled awkwardly at him.

“Please, call me John—“

“You can call me Sherl—“ once again their words rushing over one another.

“You first,” said Sherlock.

“Oh. I was just going to ask you how your research was going.”

“Uh. Well,” he nodded absently. “Yeah, very well. We excavated the top level and exhumed three complete remains from the site. I’ve been working with this fellow here, seems he put up a bit of a fight. There are some cracked ribs here, and several broken metacarpals here on his right hand. There are also a few older, healed fractures in his radius and ulna, right here, indicating that he had been in a few scrapes years before his death. It helps to identify the body, if you can piece together their back-story. We would like to be able to contact his family, if we can figure out who he is and then find them.” He was rambling, going on like a bloody ninny, and he knew it. He never rambled. But John seemed interested, leaning over the table and looking where he had indicated. A faint scent of clean sweat, dusty earth, and ethanol wafted up, catching Sherlock in the nose. He found himself wanting to lean forward and catch more of it.

“Were you out seeing patients this afternoon?” Sherlock asked. John stood up and looked surprised.

“I was, in fact. How did you know that?”

“You smell.”

“Pardon?” John lifted an arm and took an exploratory sniff at his underneath.

“You smell like you’ve been walking outside most of the day -- like the out of doors. There’s also a trace of ethanol and latex, from your gloves, I expect.”

“Oh,” John said, visibly relaxing.

“It’s a pleasant smell,” Sherlock affirmed.

“Well, thanks? I suppose?” Sherlock shrugged. “But yes, I was out visiting the nearby villages. Not everyone is able to make the trip to the hospital, so the doctors take turns doing weekly rounds to check on things, administer minor care, or make arrangements for them to come down to the hospital for more involved cases.”

“So you really were in the neighbourhood, then.”

“I was,” said John. “I was finished with my rounds, and realized I wasn’t too far from where I had heard your camp was. I figured I’d come by and check on your leg.”

“But I’m coming to the hospital the day after tomorrow to have my stitches removed,” said Sherlock, puzzled. “Why stop by when you were going to see me in two days? 

“I…” John flushed visibly. “I was in the neighbourhood,” he finished lamely.

“So you’ve said,” Sherlock persisted. John huffed a breath in annoyance.

“Well, sorry for bothering you, Sherlock. Just come by in a couple days, like planned, and I’ll see you then, all right?” he turned and left the tent, stalking off into early evening sun. Sherlock gritted his teeth. _So much for being nicer_ he thought and mentally kicked himself. He hurriedly shoved his notebooks and kit back in his cupboard and rushed out of the tent after him.

“John! Hold up!”  He was standing beside a rather beat up looking bicycle, strapping his bag onto the rack behind the seat. Sherlock jogged over to him, wincing at the slight pain in his leg.

“You shouldn’t be running on that leg.”

“Wait, John. I’m sorry. Thank you for coming by to check on me--on my leg.”

“ _Mmm_ ,” he hummed a noncommittal noise, but had ceased preparations to leave.

“I’m sure you’re thirsty? Would you like some tea? We have some in the dining tent. The light should be good in there, if you still want to look at my sutures. My leg feels fine, but if you want to look at it, you can.” _Rambling again._

“All right,” he said, unhooking his bag from the bicycle. Sherlock led him into the large dining tent and gestured at the few tables lined up there. “I’ll go fix us some tea then?”

When Sherlock had sorted out two cups, he carried them over to the empty table John was seated at. Nate and Lincoln were seated a table away, but otherwise, the tent was empty. He set the cups and saucers down on the table and sat down next to John.

“So…” Sherlock cast about for something _friendly_ to say. “Were you busy today? A lot of patients?”

“Just the usual lot. A few cuts and bruises. There were a couple new cases of cholera, but I had to send them down to the hospital to be treated. Not much I can do for them in their home.” He took a sip of his tea and immediately grimaced, visibly swallowing. “ _Ugh!_ This tea is downright awful. This is, tea, isn’t it?”

“Yes of course it’s tea. What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s just...not good.” Adjectives for just how bad it was seemed to fail John at the moment. “You taste it.” Sherlock sipped from his own cup and shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t taste anything wrong.” John grabbed the cup in front of Sherlock and took a small sip.

“No. That’s bloody awful,” he grimaced again, this time adding a shudder. “Do you have taste buds, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stiffened. “I do. And they’re in perfect working order, I assure you.”

John suddenly looked suspicious. “How’s your cooking?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t, what? You don’t cook?”

“Not as such, no,” he looked embarrassed.

“Well what do you eat?”

“A lot of takeaway, I guess. Here, in the field, it’s mostly MREs. I can handle boiling water, John,” he said when John looked at him dubiously and then pointedly down at their quickly cooling cups of tea. “I can!”

“Hmmm. Well something else in the process seems to have gone awry then. Where’s your kettle?” Sherlock indicated to the far corner where a small table was set up with an electric kettle, a large jug of potable water, a selection of tea bags, and a stack of cups and saucers.

Minutes later, John returned with two further cups of tea, setting one in front of Sherlock, who took a cautious sip. Tasting no discernable difference between that and the first cup, he shrugged. John threw up his hands in frustration.

“Maybe you should have your taste buds checked out,” he said, sipping from his own cup. He nodded in satisfaction. “Much better. I cannot believe you can’t make a proper cuppa.”

“No one’s complained before,” he grumped. “Besides, what I lack in tea making skills, I assure you I make up for in other ways.” Too late, he realised the double entendre and blushed. John laughed, nervously. For a minute they sat, sipping their new tea, in awkward silence.

“Well,” said John, finally. “Let’s have a look at that leg. Shift up here and stretch it out on the bench. Roll up your trouser leg too, if you don’t mind.” Sherlock tucked up his trouser, revealing the bandage on his calf. He positioned himself sideways on the bench, reclining back on his hands and stretching his leg out in front of him. John extracted a pair of gloves from his bag and pulled them on. He knelt on the ground, his head level with Sherlock’s right hip. Gingerly, he peeled back the medical tape that held the gauze bandage in place.

“Looks good. It’s healing well. I’ll definitely be able to take these out in two days.” He gently probed the flesh of Sherlock’s leg, inspecting the wound. Even through the latex, his fingers were warm and sturdy, the touch tender. Sherlock relaxed into the sensation of the strong fingers stroking his calf. All too soon, he was pulling his hands away and pulling a fresh bandage from his bag. After covering the sutures, John tugged off his gloves, tossing them back in the bag. Then, with his bare hands, he reached up and unrolled his trouser, his fingers inadvertently grazing the skin behind Sherlock’s right knee. Sherlock jerked at the touch, startled by the physical connection.

“Sorry,” John said, smoothing the fabric as he unrolled. The look on his face was neutral and betrayed nothing.

Sherlock was suddenly seized by an impulse. He pulled his leg away and sat up. “No, John. I’m sorry,” he said. John looked up at him, confusion clear on his face.

“About what?”

“For my behaviour last week, in the hospital,” he looked down at his hands. Now that he had begun the apology, he found he was quite nervous and unsure of what to say. This was not something he was well acquainted with. “I’m sorry that I was rude and insulting. It was uncouth and boorish of me. I appreciate that you helped me, and I showed it by behaving poorly.” John seemed stunned into silence. He knelt there, his hands resting in his lap, gawping up at Sherlock.

“Oh,” he said, finally recovering. “Uh, no worries. It’s fine. I’ve gotten worse.” Sherlock blew out a breath that he didn’t know he had holding. There was another stretch of awkward silence. He cast around for something else to say.

“I probably should—“

“It’s starting to get dark—“ They spoke over each other, again. John looked at his watch and gathering up his bag.

“I probably should head back to the hospital. It’s not a great idea to be on the road after dark.”

“Right. Well I’ll be in the day after tomorrow. So I’ll, uh, see you then?”

“Yeah. See you then,” and John was off.

Sherlock lay awake in his tent, staring up at the fabric ceiling. The time spent with John that afternoon had given him quite a bit to ponder. The physical attraction was something that could not be denied. The shock of feeling John’s fingers brush against his skin as he tended to him was...well...shocking. He wasn’t sure what to do with those feelings; attraction to another person was something he only had noticed peripherally before. In all of his previous relationships, if it existed, he considered it an added bonus. But this was vastly different. It was visceral, his reaction to John's touch. He was unsure what do with all of this, so he mentally pushed it aside, resolving to assess it a later time.

The second thing he was battling with was how at ease he had felt in John's presence. There had certainly been a few awkward moments, but even in those, he had felt more comfortable than he had ever before. He was not someone who felt comfortable around people; frankly, he preferred to avoid any unnecessary interactions. He didn't know what to make of this.

He rolled over on his cot, tucking the second batch of thoughts away for later. As his mind settled, finally empty, he started to slip into sleep. Before he did, however, one final thought drifted across his half-conscious mind. He thought that, perhaps, he was looking forward to his hospital visit.


	7. Chapter 7

_18 June, 11:33 Central Africa Time Zone_

_Kibogora Hospital, Kirambo, Rwanda_

 

“Who’s next, Adelaide?”

“We have a lacerated foot, a probable Malaria case, and an antenatal check. You can have your pick.”

“I’ll take door number two,” he sighed as he rolled his neck, tendons stretching and popping.

“Ding ding ding! We have a winner ladies and gents!” she shouted with mock enthusiasm and handed John the patient’s thin chart. Both of them had been working since 3 AM and were starting to get a bit loopy. John enjoyed the early morning shifts; it was quiet, until suddenly, it wasn’t. That ethereal peace that settled over a hospital in the early hours of the morning was both eerie and calming to John’s nerves. As a trauma surgeon, the moment the pendulum swung back the other way—from calm to chaos—was a moment that he lived for. Those moments were far fewer here in the mountains than in the desert of Afghanistan. Tonight, the only time the hospital doors had swung open was when a farmer from a nearby village had come in vomiting and dizzy after being bitten by a Baboon spider on his late night trip to the latrine.

After confirming the case of Malaria and tending to the expectant young mother, John settled in at a desk in one of the empty triage rooms off the waiting area. He had a fresh cup of tea, a stack of charts to notate and sign, and a second (or third?) windfall of energy. His shift had technically ended an hour ago, but his blood was humming and he still had one patient left to see today before he could head off for a shower and a kip in his room.

From his perspective, he had a clear view of the hospital’s front entrance and he couldn’t help but glance at it every couple of minutes. Despite a moderate flow of patients, the morning had inched by, passing more slowly than usual. John would be lying if he said that he hadn't turned to look each time the main doors of the hospital had swung open. He had no explanation as to why he was so anxious for Sherlock’s appearance. Actually, that was a lie. If he was honest with himself, he was looking forward to seeing the ill-mannered git again. There was no explanation for it, but he felt a quake in his gut every time he let his mind dwell too long on the brief exam he had performed back in the dining tent two days ago. It had been accidental, the light brush of his fingers behind Sherlock’s knee, but the tiny flutter somewhere in the region of his stomach could not be explained away. John had been a practicing doctor for almost ten years—a professional _damnit_ —not some school lad experiencing his first crush.

What was even more frustrating was that he couldn’t draw a clear picture of who exactly was the real Sherlock Holmes. His first impression was that the man was a complete tosser who had gotten lost somewhere between his country estate and a posh London nightclub and accidentally wound up in the backwoods of a small central African country. However, two days ago, when John had found him in the research tent at camp, he had stood for a moment, quietly observing Sherlock. In those few seconds, it was abundantly clear that he was passionate about his research; the sharp and critical look in those oceanic eyes would have been difficult to fake. John was increasingly ashamed to admit that, after their first meeting, he had pegged Sherlock as a rich so-called “adventurer” taking in a bit of safari holiday. But after seeing the rustic accommodations at the archaeological camp and the true nature of the research the group was conducting, there was no way that he could still believe that.

Then, when Sherlock had apologized to him in the dining tent, John had sensed that he himself was not the only one surprised by the pronouncement. Sherlock had looked like he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth, but was helpless to stop them. John had certainly been surprised—the man he had met in the hospital waiting room had refused to apologize and certainly given the impression that he was not accustomed to doing so under any circumstances. And yet he had. What had led him to do it?

John’s head was spinning; his mind had turned into a washing machine that was agitating thoughts around and around. From that swirling mass, one train of thought was rising to the surface. John found Sherlock attractive, disarmingly so. He was, _what was a word for it?_ , intrigued by the man. If their first meeting had taken place in a London A&E instead of here in Kibogora, he would have struggled with the decision to knock him flat on his perfect arse with a sucker punch or wheedle his mobile number out of him. But they had not met back home in London. John still had four months left in his rotation in Africa before he was due back in the UK. No serious relationship could be successfully undertaken under these circumstances. Romance was not something he was willing to take on lightly. He couldn’t say that the idea of a purely physical relationship hadn’t occurred to him, but that seemed disingenuous and putting the cart way before the horse. Furthermore, John was a diehard romantic, he knew this about himself. Aside from a few exceptions during his younger days, he only sought physical intimacy within the context of a committed relationship.

He started. His mind had wandered down a strange path and he realized he had been staring down at the same patient’s chart for fifteen minutes now. This was absurd. He didn’t know Sherlock from Adam and the few interactions they had engaged in had left John frustrated and irked. He would come in today, John would remove his sutures, and send him packing. Likely they would never see each other again.

 _Speak of the devil and he shall appear_. The hospital’s main doors swung open to admit the very man John had been thinking of. Sherlock was dressed in what appeared to be his own field uniform: narrow fitting army green chinos casually tucked into sturdy high top boots, a long sleeve khaki field shirt with the shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, and a navy blue bandana tied around his neck. On some, the outfit might look like something one might wear to a fancy dress party. But Sherlock looked both stylish and practical. John watched him cross the waiting room and approach the nurse’s station. He cleared his throat, getting the attention of Jenny, the Scottish nurse.

“Holmes. I have an appointment with Dr Watson,” he announced, his Oxbridge accent dripping with impatience. “I believe I am expected.” John rolled his eyes. _Imperious git_. He stood, drawing on his white coat and gathered his charts and empty mug.

“Sherlock,” he said, drawing up next to him. “Come on back.” He took the proffered chart labelled _Holmes, S._ from Jenny, adding it to the top of his stack. “Ta, Jenny. We’ll be in exam room five,” he said and led Sherlock down the hall and into the empty room.

“So how are things going on the dig?” John asked after he shut the exam room door behind him.

“Well, thank you,” said Sherlock, rather stiffly.

“We’ve been having some good weather lately. I’m sure that’s been beneficial for you.” He drew on a pair of gloves as Sherlock situated himself on the hospital cot.

“Yes, it’s been very seasonable, or so I’ve been told.”

“It has.” John arranged forceps, surgical scissors, scalpel, antiseptic solution, and cotton swabs on a metal tray. An awkward silence had descended in the small room. Behind him, Sherlock’s boot fell to the floor with a thud. John turned and set the tray at the end of the cot, pulling a stool up next to the bed. Sherlock was rolling his trouser up above the bandage, his head bowed towards his bent knee. John resolutely ignored the few errant dark curls that fell over Sherlock’s high forehead. Not quite so hard to ignore was the long, pale, and bare foot resting on the cot. The small room suddenly felt very intimate. John cleared his throat with a cough.

“So…” he cast around for a topic of conversation. “Your research. Is it for a paper you’re writing? Or a book?”

“Eventually a paper,” Sherlock winced as a few dark leg hairs were caught by the bandage adhesive.

“Sorry,” John murmured.

“I’m on the faculty at University College London. I’ve been trying for a few years to get tenure, but my fellow faculty don’t like me much and are making things...difficult.” He shrugged his shoulders. “This project should be unique enough to impress them. I’m hoping it will be my ticket in.”

“So you live in London then?”

“I do. Westminster. In Marylebone.” He sucked in a small breath as John swabbed the sutures with antiseptic.

“Sorry again.” John picked up his forceps and scalpel. “This won’t hurt, just a small tug for each suture.” Sherlock waved his hand imperiously, but John noticed the slight quiver in the calf muscle. He gripped the bony ankle in reassurance and Sherlock seemed to relax slightly. John set to work on the first stitch.

“You said you don’t get along with your co-workers? How long have you been at UCL?”

“Four years.”

“And they still haven’t come around to you?”

“You might have noticed that I’m not the friendliest of people, John.”  
  
“Oh I don’t know. I’m sure under all that bluster, you have a warm heart.” Sherlock grunted in response and John quirked a small smile without looking up from his task.

“Yes, well, I don’t play the office politics game very well. I don’t have the patience for it.”

“What about your students? Do you get along with them?”

“The temperament of the average nineteen year old is something I struggle to comprehend.”

“You were that age once, can’t you remember what it was like?”

“I started university when I was sixteen. I doubt I was considered ‘average’ at that age.”

“Still, I imagine the motivations of a university student are fairly straightforward, even today. When I was at medical college, all we were interested in was studying, drinking, and shagging.”

“Precisely. Out of those three motivational factors, I can only relate to one. My studies have been my priority from day one of sixth form.”

“Well that certainly explains your marvellous grasp of social niceties,” John looked up at Sherlock with a grin. Sherlock looked nonplussed.

“Your family is from Scotland?” Sherlock asked, changing the subject abruptly.

“They are. My grandparents still live in Dundee. How did you know?” He felt Sherlock shrug above him.

“Your accent,” he said simply.

“I’ve never lived there though. My mum, sister, and I left before I was a year old.”

“It’s slight, but the phonology markers are there for a Scottish central lowlands accent.” Once again, John looked up from his work, his mouth slightly agape.

“It’s creepy, that. I can’t tell if it’s a brilliant kind of creepy, or just eerie.” Sherlock looked abashed and John felt bad. He set the scalpel down and gripped the pale ankle again. “It’s brilliant. Definitely.” John smiled and felt a blush start at his hairline. Sherlock’s naked foot twitched and he looked away. John picked up the scalpel and set back to finish his task. The awkward silence had descended once again. They didn’t speak a word while John finished removing the rest of the sutures. He swabbed on some more antibac gel and covered the wound with another bandage. This time, he rolled his stool away, pulled off his gloves, and allowed Sherlock to put his own trousers back to rights.

“Well you’re all set. It’s still healing, so I would refrain from any dangerous football matches. But you should be fine to return to full duty on the dig. Try not to go lifting heavy objects or crouch for long periods of time. If you’ve got some, you can rub some KY or other lotion into the skin. That will help it heal faster and reduce scarring. Though I did a good job with the stitches and you’ll hardly be able to see it when it’s fully healed.” He busied himself by straightening up the exam room. Behind him, Sherlock was pulling a sock on over that pale foot.

“Thank you, John,” he said.

“Ah. You’re more than welcome. Just doing my job, you know.”

“I know.”

“Ah.” John cast about in his brain for something to say. Something that would prolong his involvement with Sherlock. Suddenly he had a thought. _This could be a very bad idea_ said a small voice in his head. _Or it could be a very good idea_ said another. _Only one way to find out._

“Some of the hospital staff are having a little do tomorrow night. Nothing too formal, just some drinks and dancing down in the staff lounge. Blowing off some steam, you know? A bunch of us will be there, should be fun. Adelaide’s got some whiskey set back, there’s usually some beer, and some of the local staff bring this brilliant stuff called _ubuki_. You should come, if you’re free that is. If you want. If you’re busy, that’s fine too. Just thought I’d ask. You can invite everyone else up at the dig. Might be fun to chat with some fellow Brits again, you know...?” _Smooth, Watson. Really smooth._

Sherlock was slowly lacing up his boot, but had his eyes on John. “To borrow a phrase from my students, that sounds like a ‘right rager’.” John flushed. Sherlock looked back to his boots, studiously avoiding John’s eager gaze. “I might be able to round up a few folks. I’ll warn you though, academics can get a bit loose, especially when there’s drinks involved.”

“Brilliant,” John attempted an air of casualness and nonchalance. “If you can make it. If not, that’s fine too. You’ve probably got something else going on.”

“Now that you mention it, I had heard a few of the others mention something about a night out at the clubs down in Leicester Square.” The eye roll was audible. John laughed. 

“I suppose Gafunzo isn’t known for the nightlife, eh?”

“Hardly.”

“Well, Sherlock, you are officially discharged from my care. Stay off the football pitch, if you will.”

“Yes, doctor.” John pulled the exam room door open and gestured Sherlock through it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“With bells on.” Sherlock gave a nod to Jenny at her desk and strode out the hospital doors. John watched him go, that flutter in his gut coming to life again.

 _A bit not good_ , admonished a voice in his head.

“Oh stuff it,” John mumbled.

 

* * *

 

_19 June, 20:26 Central Africa Time Zone_

_Kibogora Hospital, Kirambo, Rwanda_

 

John found himself watching the door for a tall, dark-haired, scowling face the second time in as many days. He stood talking with Chloe, the doctor from Texas, and Mike Stamford, all sipping their beers thoughtfully.

"What do y'all miss the most about home?" asked Chloe.

"A decent plate of chips," said Mike looking dreamily off into the distance.

"Mmmm. What about you, John?”

“The convenience of everything. Public transport, grocery stores, and Netflix. Oh, and especially my neighbourhood newsagent. I miss nipping down to the corner local, picking up the day’s paper and a Starbar.”

“Starbar? Seriously? What rubbish!”

“Let me guess, Mike, you like Aero Mint?”

“Hey! It’s good!”

“Or the worst kind of Aero bar.”

“This is an inane conversation, beneath all of your intellects. But I suppose they’ll award medical degrees to just about anyone these days,” rumbled a baritone voice over John’s shoulder. He turned to find a frowning Sherlock.

“Well fine, smart arse. What’s your favourite chocolate bar, then?”

“I don’t eat sweets.” The group gawped at him.

“How can you not like chocolate?” asked Chloe in a shocked voice. She seemed to take this as a personal affront. Sherlock just shrugged. They stood awkwardly as the moment faded away. Chloe picked at the label on her beer bottle.

“So…” said Mike giving John the side eye.

“Oh! Right. So sorry. Where are my manners? Mike, Chloe, this is Sherlock Holmes. He’s with the research group at the dig up in Gafunzo. Sherlock, this is Mike Stamford and Chloe Jones—they’re also doctors with nothing better to do than work here.” Handshakes and a chorus of “how do you do?” all around.

John didn’t want to seem overeager or attach himself to Sherlock’s hip for the entire evening, so after he made a few more introductions, pointed Sherlock in the direction of the alcohol and snacks, he broke off to mingle. He met a few of the other researchers who had come down with Sherlock, chatting with a young pathologist from St. Bart’s named Molly. They had a good group going; about thirty people altogether were crowded into the staff lounge. Despite the crush of people, he was mentally and physically always aware of Sherlock. _Was he having fun? Did he like John’s friends? How does my arse look in these jeans? Should I have another drink? Oh bugger!_ He was being ridiculous. He felt the room heating up, the _ubuki_ making his skin flush and muscles relax.

Someone had found a radio at one point and found a weak signal to a Kigali station. As the alcohol continued to flow, people began dancing. Adelaide captured John’s hand and despite his protestations, drew him into the small crowd. They danced for a song, bodies pressing in around them. John felt his heather-grey t-shirt stick to his sweaty back. Adelaide leaned forward and put her mouth near his ear, shouting over the noise.

“Don’t look now, but your date can’t take his eyes off your arse.” Either from her hot breath, the alcohol, or her words, John felt his whole body’s temperature rise another degree.

“He’s not my date,” John corrected. “I just invited the group to come down because I thought they might like a chance to meet some other expats.”

“Right, so he’s just a friendly acquaintance?”

“A what?” It was starting to get rather boisterous and hard to hear.

“An acquaintance, John!” Adelaide raised her voice even louder.

“Oh!” said John, comprehending. “Definitely.”

“Well your ‘acquaintance’ hasn’t stopped staring at your arse the whole time we’ve been out here dancing. I’m surprised you can’t feel his eyes burning a hole right through your jeans.” John had nothing to say to that, so instead he gave Adelaide a sly look and took another swig of his wine. His fluttering stomach had returned.

They danced a few more songs before John took a break to grab another drink. He was feeling pleasantly relaxed and buzzed. Attempting to look casual, he made his way across the room to where Sherlock was standing talking with Molly. He joined in their conversation about Molly’s medical research for a couple minutes before she gave Sherlock a look so significant it’s meaning would have been clear from outer space.

“Oh! I think Greg is looking for me...over there!” She stood up on her toes and waved wildly across the room. The man in question was deep in discussion with one of the Rwandan doctors, and most definitely not looking for Molly. “Coming, Greg!” she gave Sherlock another look before scurrying off. “Laters!”

An uncomfortable silence descended. “Sorry about that,” Sherlock said. “I’m afraid she has as much about as much subtlety as a sledgehammer.”

“That’s all right.” John toyed with his nearly empty plastic cup. “Are you having fun?”

“Sure enough,” Sherlock took another sip from his drink. “I’m not usually one for this kind of event, but watching your mate Mike dance is entertaining enough.” John followed his gesture and saw Mike flailing about in the direction of one of the female researchers. The atmosphere in the room had swung to something sweaty and physical. John noticed a few groping hands on the dance floor and watched Adelaide slip out a side door, her hand in the grasp of a bloke John had met earlier in the evening... _Lincoln, was it_?

“I did warn you that we academic types can get a bit loose when plied with alcohol,” said Sherlock, his voice rumbling much deeper than John remembered. His stomach clenched and a shiver danced over his heated and sweaty skin. In his mind, a battle was waging: good versus evil, to snog versus not to snog. He swallowed the last bit of his _ubuki_ , set his cup down and turned to Sherlock.

“It’s a bit warm in here. Fancy some fresh air?”

“Absolutely,” said Sherlock without hesitation, similarly tossing back the rest of his own drink. John led him out the door into the hospital corridor and outside. It was just after dusk, that time when the light was blue and fading fast. The cooler night air washed over his flushed face. It felt wonderful to be out of the noise and hot room. His ears were ringing, but the only other sounds were that of the dirt under their feet and the usual night-time insect noises.

They set out on a path that took them around the hospital compound and behind the main hospital building. Sherlock’s hands were tucked behind his back, while John kept his fisted in his jeans pockets. They walked about 100 yards in silence. John wished he had some idea what Sherlock was thinking, where his head was at. He himself was wracked with indecision. _Nothing good can come of this_ , one voice warned. _He’ll be leaving in a couple months, and you’ll be stuck here. You don’t even know him! Remember how much of a prat he is?_ The other voice shouted: _Who cares if he’s a prat! Look at that arse! Kiss him! Look at those lips! Wouldn’t they feel so nice and soft? Think about how long it’s been since you’ve have a proper snog!_ John stole a glance up at his lips. They _did_ look nice.

Sherlock turned his head and caught John staring at his mouth. They had stopped walking and unconsciously turned towards each other, Sherlock’s back to the breezeblock wall of the hospital. John licked his lips and watched Sherlock’s red tongue dart out and briefly wet his own. That was the last signal John’s instinctual brain needed.

“Oh sod it!” he exhaled as he reached up, wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock’s warm neck and pulled his head down towards his own. Their lips met in a slide of soft, warm flesh over flesh. Sherlock barely hesitated before bringing a hand to John’s waist and pulling him flush against his own body, his other hand fisting the back of John’s t-shirt. Their mouths opened to each other immediately and their tongues slipped inside and grappled. John’s hand drifted up into Sherlock’s curls, still damp with sweat from the heat of the staff lounge. As their mouths continued to move over each other, John felt his heart pound in his chest, a pleasurable sensation pooling at the base of his spine.

His tongue licked deep into Sherlock’s mouth, tasting him and the lager he had been drinking earlier, the malty flavour mixing with what John thought must be Sherlock's essential flavour: something vaguely smoky and amber, like some dark, ancient, and earthy spice. As he inhaled through his nose, he caught whiff of sweat, clean mountain air, and arousal.

The kiss was quickly turning sloppy. John’s mouth slipped from Sherlock’s and he kissed along his stubbled jawline up to the pulse point behind Sherlock’s ear, sucking and biting. Sherlock let out a low moan, his long fingers grasping John’s hip even tighter. John brought a hand around to Sherlock’s chest and using it, pushed him back against the breezeblock wall. John crowded him against the wall, and wedged a thigh between Sherlock’s legs. He registered a hardness against his thigh muscle and let out his own strangled moan. Sherlock bent his head and licked a path up John’s neck. John’s head fell back, exposing his neck to Sherlock’s gorgeous mouth. “Oh... _god_ ,” he whispered to the night air. Sherlock tongued a ticklish spot on John’s neck and he tried to squirm away, but Sherlock’s hands had returned to John’s hips and he held him fast, pelvis to pelvis.

He sucked John’s lower lip into his mouth, gently biting it. John’s own hands were everywhere: Sherlock’s back, his neck, his upper arms, his arse. The kiss was fierce, rough, and soul-bearing. Through the haze of passion clouding his brain, John's only thought was that he had kissed this man before—they’ve done this a million times before tonight. It was familiar, and despite the ferocity of the mouth against his, it was comforting. There was no timidity in this kiss, none of the usual hesitancy that accompanies a first kiss. Therefore, he reasoned, they’ve done this before, in some past life.

Sherlock’s left hand slid down the top plane of John’s bottom and gripped the flesh of his arse, pulling him closer and fusing their erections together through their clothes. All thought ceased in John’s brain and his animal instincts took over fully. He rocked into Sherlock, rutting against him. He felt the growl coming deep from within Sherlock’s chest. _More, more_ was the only thing on his mind as the hand gripping Sherlock’s shoulder snaked down between them, wrestling with the buckle on Sherlock’s trousers. His felt Sherlock’s hand kneading the flesh of his arse, as he freed the button on the chinos. Without hesitation, John’s hand found the skin at the top of Sherlock’s pants and stroked it softly with his thumb – the first gentle touch of their frenetic and mutual combustion. He gave Sherlock a chance to push him away, but the hand on his arse tightened to a bruising grip and he heard a throaty “yes, _god_! yes,” in his ear. John fingers brushed past the elastic of Sherlock’s pants and—

“Sherlock? Hey, Sherlock!” A woman’s voice rang out, breaking the spell. John and Sherlock froze in place, hands gripping and lips still fused, but unmoving.

“Sherlock! It’s getting dark! We’ve got to head back to camp!”

“Fuck me, it’s Molly. _Fuck!_ ” Sherlock swore. They were both panting with arousal still, their erections rubbing against one another through their trousers. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock staring down at him in what looked to be horror and shock. John quickly withdrew his hand from inside Sherlock's pants and took a slight step back, instantly missing the touch of the other man's burning skin. Sherlock dropped his hands from their place on John's arse and did up his trousers, tucking in his shirt and avoiding John's eyes in the process.

No more than fifteen seconds had passed since Molly called out, but in that time John had seen something of a curtain being drawn over Sherlock's face. He seemed totally closed off to John now, all evasive eyes and shifting muscles.

“I, uh, I should go,” Sherlock said, taking a further step away from John. “I’ll see you around…” He turned and fled into the descending night, leaving John standing there with a racing heart, an aching erection, and a buzzing head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ubuki is a fermented honey alcohol.


	8. Chapter 8

_22 June, 19:45 Central Africa Time Zone_

_Gafunzo Project dig site, Gafunzo, Rwanda_

 

If asked, Sherlock Holmes would deny ever entertaining the idea of romantic or sentimental notions, let alone actually ever having experienced them. He fervently believed that those sorts of ideas were a sign of weakness and led to nothing of purpose. It was fine for others; those who could afford to sacrifice their sanity and logical reasoning were welcome to wallow around in the torment, uncertainty, and inevitable misery that accompanied so-called “love.” But Sherlock had survived thirty-three years on this celestial ball without forming any sort of emotional attachment, and he was certain he could go another forty-six (give or take a few years off the average life expectancy of a male living in Great Britain) in the same unencumbered state.

What was the point, honestly? What did attaching oneself to a single individual to whom you become emotionally dependant achieve? In a similar vein, Sherlock would also scoff at the suggestion of having a confidant or a friend that he shared his thoughts with. His brain was a machine, pragmatic and methodical, and could be relied upon to process information, suss out problems in a logical pattern, and return to him the answers to his queries, emotional or otherwise. Why would he need a friend, an unpredictable variable, in his life, especially if one was not given to these aforementioned emotions or sentiments?

 

* * *

 

He had been struggling for the past three days, walking around in a stupor and going through the motions of working. As each day had passed, his mood had sunk deeper and deeper. He knew that his co-workers were avoiding him—his snapping outburst at Lincoln earlier that morning in the dining tent had been inadvisable. He had spent the remainder of the day in the research tent, sequestering himself and his restless melancholy. Currently, he was meant to be comparing the remains of two young males he had excavated the previous week. In reality, twenty minutes had passed without him doing more than staring off into space and chewing on his biro, as he was want to do when deep in thought (the trouble with this was that he often ended up with a mouthful of blue ink). There was a noise outside the tent and Sherlock returned to the moment with a start, looking down at the notes he had made in his field notebook. It was all gibberish, incorrect calculations and useless details. This put him even deeper into his foul mood and he threw his pen across the tent in anger. Seeing the futility of continuing to try and work, he gathered up his things, shoving them haphazardly into his cupboard, and stormed out of the tent.  He needed some fresh air and a place to sit quietly, so he struck out in the direction of a rocky outcrop that he had come to regard as his thinking place.

The mere fact that he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus on the work that was meant to define him, was infuriating. The machine that was his mind fed off facts, processed evidence, and churned out deductions. He felt as though a gear or pin was out of balance in the assembly and all it was producing now was sooty smoke and an awful clunking noise. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and ring finger, massaging his tear ducts. A headache had been brewing all day and his temper was simmering near the surface. As he headed away from camp, he passed several of the others on their way from the dig site towards the dining tent for dinner. They called out to him, but he ignored them, desperate for some isolation and peace.  He arrived at the cluster of craggy rocks and sank down to the ground, his back to one particularly uncomfortable boulder. He let his eyes fall closed and listened to the wind rushing down the nearby mountain.

Sherlock knew what the problem was, or part of the problem, at least. That Bloody Kiss. He was so ashamed to have let himself get swept up in the moment, letting his judgment be coloured by such base emotions as lust and desire for this gentle doctor. Sherlock Holmes, M. Sc., Ph.D., is not governed by anything other than facts and logic. But ever since he had met John Watson, he had been struggling to comprehend his feelings and make sense of them. Perhaps he should start by establishing why it was that this particular person—this singular man—what was it about him that caused this reaction in Sherlock. _Yes_ , Sherlock nodded to himself. _Tackle this problem using logic. Deduce the facts, process evidence, and find the answer_.

He had already arrived at many conclusions about John Watson. John was the sort who needed to feel useful, hence the military service and now NGO work. The two careers had other things in common as well: they both attracted adventurers, risk-seekers, and people who didn’t shy away from a little bit of danger. John’s career as a trauma surgeon further supported the hypothesis that he was a bit of an adrenaline junkie; that was not the career of a timid person. He had served in Afghanistan longer than any compulsory period. There was clearly some reason he had stayed, and then a reason that had caused him to leave. Was it duty to queen and country? Loyalty to commanding officers? Or someone else?

John was also a gentle soul. Sherlock had not been an easy patient to manage, and yet John had treated him with far more care than Sherlock had deserved. He had seen John with a few other patients and saw how calm and careful he was with each of them. It was also clear that he had earned the respect of the rest of the hospital staff. In a simple word, John Watson was a _good_ man. He was a loyal man, a risk taker, and a nurturer. Did any of this explain Sherlock’s reaction to John? Sherlock was not usually one to put words to feelings. How would he describe the way he had been feeling since he met John? He was ready to tear his hair out in frustration. _Christ. How do regular people live like this?_

“Sherlock!” Molly’s voice rang out as she came into view across the rocks. “There you are! What are you doing up here?”

“Seeking some peace and quiet, if you can imagine,” he bit out. She really did have an impeccable habit of turning up when he least wanted to see her.

“Oh,” she said. Not to be deterred, she drew up next to him, with her hands on her hips, and looked down at him on the ground. “Did you eat yet?”

“Not hungry,” he said sullenly.

“Well you should eat anyway.”

“ _Hmph._ ”

Molly settled on the ground next to him, sharing his rocky backrest. “Budge over, Sherlock.” They sat in silence for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, and listening to the wind swirl around them. Sherlock could tell she was waiting for him to speak first, but hang it—he was entitled to his privacy. The silence stretched on, he became restless and shifted uneasily. Finally, he sighed heavily.

“What do you want, Molly?”

“Me? I don’t want anything,” she responded, all casual innocence.

“Everybody wants something.”

“I just thought you might like someone to talk to. You’ve been in such a strop the last few days.”

“I’m fine. It’s all fine,” said Sherlock, darkly. He didn’t care if she believed him or not. He _was_ fine. Just a bit of a mental malfunction that he needed to sort out and he would be right as rain again.

“All right. Well if you change your mind, I’m here if you need to talk.” She didn’t move and they continued to sit there. Darkness was beginning to fall gradually around them, but the lights from camp were close enough for comfort. Once again, the wind was the only noise. Every so often, when the wind shifted, Sherlock could hear conversation from camp drift across to where they sat. Minutes ticked by.

“How do you do it?” he asked quietly.

“Do what?” Molly asked, without surprise or hesitation.

“Live with all the feelings?”

Molly looked askance at him. “Live with feelings? Well I suppose I do it the same way all the rest of us mere mortals do, Sherlock.”

“How do you stop them from affecting your judgement and decision making?” His voice was small, almost as if he were afraid of giving voice to his thoughts. 

“I’m not sure we’re meant to. I would say that’s what they’re for. How do you make decisions if not by gut feelings?”

“Logic. Facts. Rational thinking?” His tone implied that this was quite obvious and that Molly was dense for not seeing so.

“Those are all well and good, Sherlock, but isn’t that a bit robotic? What do you do when your emotions are leading you in direction different from the logical one? A direction that differs from the facts?”

“Ignore them. I generally believe that sentiment and emotion is an unreliable metric with which to measure actions.”

Molly stared at him in disbelief. “So you ignore them?” Sherlock nodded. Molly continued to stare at him, then narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “What’s this all about?”

Sherlock avoided her gaze. “I am merely speaking in hypotheticals.”

“Bullshit, Sherlock.” Molly’s eyes continued to study him, as if she could suss out the truth somewhere on his person. Then suddenly, her eyes widened and he heard her quick intake of breath. “This is about that doctor bloke! John Whatsit!”

“Watson. John Watson,” corrected Sherlock miserably.

“Ah ha!” she laughed gleefully and clapped her hands once. “I knew it! You see! You’re not the only one with deduction skills.”

“Yes, yes, you’re bloody brilliant, Molly.” He shifted away from her as though he could avoid this conversation by turning his back to her.

“Oh, Sherlock! How does it feel to be mortal? To know you’re not above having a feeling heart?”

“It feels horrible, and I thank you very much for not spreading it around that I’ve become some mooning adolescent. Oh do pull yourself together, Dr Hooper!” he berated as Molly continued to cackle, nearly rolling on the ground in mirth. 

“The iceman has a heart!”

“That’s quite enough!” he shouted. Molly seemed to regain control of herself, letting out one last hiccup of laughter.

“So what’s the problem then? Do you like him? Or is this just a physical thing?”

“That is most assuredly none of your business.”

“Sherlock, if this is the cause of your foul mood this past week, then why not talk to someone about it? I promise,” she drew her index finger across her chest in an X. “I won’t laugh anymore. Nor will I tell anyone. I am the soul of discretion.” She looked at him earnestly.

Sherlock worried his bottom lip between his teeth, his instinct warring with desperation. He was not one to confide in others. Embarrassment to even find himself in this situation igniting every instinct of self-preservation. On the other hand, he often found that talking out loud helped him process his thoughts better. He had a skull back home in his flat that he often exercised his dilemmas through, but he supposed Molly was the next best thing.

“All right,” he acquiesced. “I’m not...I’m not sure where to begin?”

“Well to start with, what’s got you in such a mood?”

“As I said earlier, I don’t usually indulge in sentiment. I suppose that is what I’m feeling at the present moment. This aberration is frustrating and perplexing. It’s distracting me from my work, which is exactly why I try to avoid it.”

“So you do like him? It’s more than just a physical attraction?”

“I don’t know!” Sherlock drew his knees up towards his chest, wrapping his arms around them and grasping his elbows. The posture was positively adolescent. “The amount of time we’ve spent together could be measured in hours. How is it possible to articulate or trust feelings that have been formed in such a short amount of time?”

“Well what does your gut tell you? Do you just want to shag him? Or do you want to spend time with him? Talk to him? Learn more about who he is as a man?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. What _did_ he want? He knew that the short amount of time he had spent in John’s company had been easy, disarming, and enjoyable. He wanted to know more about John—not just the things that Sherlock was able to deduce, but more.  “I suppose that I would enjoy pursuing a personal relationship with him.”

Molly, somewhat successfully, stifled a laugh. “Well be sure you phrase it just like that when you declare yourself to him.”

“Declare myself?”

“Well, yes. Do you just expect him to guess at what you’re feeling?”

“Surely it should be obvious.”

“Well it might not be.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So what do I do now? I can’t continue on this way,” he said, gesturing in the general direction of his head.

“What way?”

“This way. Short tempered, foul mood, unable to focus or concentrate on my work.”

“I would start by talking to John. Has he given you any indication that he might return your favour?”

“ _Mmph_ ,” Sherlock snorted. “I dare say.” Molly gave him a questioning look. Sherlock cleared his throat, a flush creeping up his neck. “Uh, we had a moment of physical intimacy the other evening.”

“You naughty boy!” She crowed and gave Sherlock a playful slap on the arm. “You were holding out on me! Well then...yes. I suppose that does clear a few questions up. So what happened after your...moment?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing’?”

“I mean you came along yelling like a banshee and interrupted us. I came to my senses and we parted ways. I have neither seen nor spoken to John since.”

“So you ran off?”

“I suppose one might say that.”

“Oh Sherlock,” she moaned and hung her head.

“What?”

“So this man kisses you—I assume that he made the first move?” Sherlock nodded “—and you run off without a word into the bloody night?”

“Not good?”

“A bit not good, no.”

Sherlock was beginning to lose his patience with this conversation. “So what do I do?”

“You go down there to his hospital and you apologize.”

“I seem to be doing a good amount of apologizing to this man,” Sherlock grumped under his breath.

“Yes, well it’s to be expected to abandon your comfort zone when you’re wooing someone.”

The blush crept further up his neck, reaching his face and Sherlock clenched his fists. “Sherlock Holmes does not ‘woo’,” he said, his tight Oxbridge accent became even starchier.

This time, she could not contain her laughter. “Ho boy, you’re too rich!” He shot Molly a _look_. “Haven’t you dated other people before?”

“Define ‘date’?”

“Been in a committed and mutually beneficial relationship with another person; connecting on both an emotional and physical level?” Molly shook her head as if she couldn’t believe she was defining what constitutes as a relationship to a thirty-three year old man.

“I have been in casual partnerships with other people, but no, I wouldn’t qualify them as what you just so succinctly described.”

“That is both shocking and yet one hundred per cent believable.”

“Yes, yes. I am a cynical and emotionally unavailable man who lacks the basic qualities of openness and apathy that are necessary when undertaking a relationship. I believe this has been well established.” Sherlock exhaled an annoyed sigh.

“Those are things that you can learn, though. Especially if it’s for the right person.”

Sherlock mulled that over. Did he want to learn how to make himself vulnerable? To be open with someone like that went against every instinct that he had. Furthermore, there were reasons that he had avoided relationships in the past: work, his career, and the solitary life that he had built for himself. Was he willing to compromise all of that for one man?

 

* * *

 

_23 June, 8:36 Central Africa Time Zone_

_Kibogora Hospital, Kirambo, Rwanda_

 

The next morning, as Sherlock parked the bicycle that he had borrowed from Lestrade outside the doors of Kibogora Hospital, he thought again that he was about to apologize to the same person for the second time in almost as many weeks. It was, apparently, becoming quite the habit, although he was discovering that it wasn’t any easier the second time around. He felt nervous, keyed up, and still a bit short tempered even after his conversation with Molly the previous day. He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say, nor what he hoped the outcome of the conversation would be. He was also unsure of what sort of state of mind he might find John in—Molly had led Sherlock to believe that John might be upset over Sherlock’s abandonment and subsequent lack of communication. Sherlock blew out a breath, straightened his shoulders, and pushed open the doors of the hospital.

John was standing with his back to the front doors, leaning over the nurses station, scrawling on a chart. One foot was hooked behind the other, and his right hip was cocked to the side. Sherlock could tell by the way he was standing that it had been a long night shift and that John’s back was bothering him. As Sherlock stood there, admiring the strong lines of said back and shoulders, John’s hand reached behind him to rub the small of his back through his blue scrub top. Sherlock shook himself—he couldn't stand here admiring John’s arse all day.

He stepped up behind John and cleared his throat quietly.

"If you’re here to be seen, please sign in on the sheet over there," said John in French, gesturing to the clipboard with his biro without turning around.

"Pardon, but I believe I need to see a doctor," Sherlock smirked; the sense of déjà vu was not lost on him.

John paused in his note writing, but didn’t turn around. The shoulders that Sherlock had been regarding seconds ago were suddenly stiff with some mystery emotion.

“Dr Holmes,” John said tightly. “I believe I discharged you from my care a week ago.” The barely restrained anger in his voice caused Sherlock to wince.

“John—Dr Watson—is there somewhere that we might speak—privately?” Sherlock caught the eye of the blonde nurse listening closely on the other side of the desk. At least she had the decency to look a slightly embarrassed.

“Oh so _now_ you want to talk? _Now_ you’re interested in having a discussion?” John’s voice had ticked up in volume a few decibels.

So perhaps Molly was a bit right about John being upset. “John—“  Sherlock started to say, pitching his voice low and quiet to imbue some calm into the situation. Before he could continue, however, John slammed shut the patient chart he had been working on, pushed it across the desk to the nurse, and turned, storming down the hallway—all without even glancing at Sherlock. Unsure, Sherlock risked a look at the nurse. She gave him a sympathetic look, but twitched her head in John’s direction indicating that he should follow.

Sherlock headed after John, hurrying to catch up. John turned into an empty exam room, and as Sherlock shut the door behind them, he turned to look at Sherlock for the first time. He stood at parade rest, regarding Sherlock with a scowl and Sherlock felt his anxiety ratchet up another level. He had a feeling that John was not going to make this apology as easy as the first time and he suddenly had no idea what he was going to say. All the words that he had prepared had flown from his head. His attempts to deduce and read the situation were failing him. John was obviously quite upset, but over what, exactly? What would be the best thing to say to him?

“At ease, soldier,” Sherlock joked, hoping a bit of humour might diffuse the tension. John’s scowl, however, turned into an almost-snarl.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

“I was told that you might be in need of another apology from me.” John’s eyes widened and took on a dangerous glint.

“Oh, fuck off, Sherlock! You came down here to _apologize_ because you were told to? Well Christ, that’s just what every bloke wants to hear after he’s been left literally holding his dick in his hands. Ta very much for the _apology_!” John moved to brush past Sherlock and leave the room, but Sherlock stepped to the side to block his way. John drew up short before colliding into Sherlock.

“Look, John. I’m trying my hardest here not to totally botch this—“

“Well try again.”

“But I am truly sorry for—“

“What? What are you sorry for?” John’s voice had risen to shouting level.

“Will you let me finish?” Sherlock shouted in retort. “I am _trying_ to bloody apologize to you! I am attempting to be emotionally open with you and you...you won’t bloody shut up for one minute!” John’s mouth shut with an audible click and his expression shifted to a mixture of surprise and fury. Sherlock’s breath was coming in quick gasps, as his emotions simmered at the surface of his psyche, like oil in a hot pan. Silence rang loudly in the small, sterile room.

“Now then,” Sherlock started with a soft voice. “May we sit down and discuss this as two rational adults in control of their emotions?” He gestured to the gurney as he took a seat on the stool. John sat, their positions reversed from their first meeting. Sherlock braced his hands on his knees and leaned forward.

“John. I am honestly, _truly_ , sorry for running off the other night and subsequently ignoring you. I acknowledge that it was absolutely roguish behaviour and unbefitting of my, uh, of the sentiment that I hold for you.”

John was still silent, but the expression on his face shifted again, this time fully from anger to surprise. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, so he shut it again.

“It’s okay,” said Sherlock with a hesitant smile. “You can talk now. I won’t shout.”

“Why? Why did you shut down like that? Do you know how embarrassing that was?” John's voice held a pleading note to it.

Sherlock scuffed his feet and avoided John’s gaze. He had hoped to avoid this part, but now he recognized that had been a futile hope. Of course John would want to know not only that Sherlock was sorry, but also why he had left in the first place. He blew out a breath and toed at a spot on the vinyl floor.

“I was ashamed. Embarrassed by my behaviour.”

John blanched at that. “Oh god. You mean, you’re not gay? Did I totally misjudge the situation? Oh my god, you—“

“No! No. Oh hell. I’m making a total cock up of this,” Sherlock sighed, ruffling the thick dark curls on his head. He finally raised his eyes to meet John’s beseeching gaze. “I am shite at this—if you haven’t noticed. Being emotionally available and open is...hard, to say the least.”

John’s face relaxed slightly, giving way to a patient, if still cautious expression. He nodded at Sherlock, allowing him to continue when he was ready, uninterrupted.

“The Kiss was lovely. I most assuredly enjoyed it. But you have to understand, John, I’m not the sort of person to get swept up in emotions.” Sherlock felt a flush creep up his neck. It was suddenly quite warm in the small hospital exam room. “I wasn’t embarrassed by what we were doing. I was embarrassed that I let myself get caught up in the moment and let it get out of hand.”

“Are you regretting that it happened?”

“Was it enjoyable? Absolutely. Was it advisable? Perhaps not.” Sherlock maintained John’s eye contact. _What was John thinking? Did_ he _regret The Kiss? Did he want to do it again? Did_ Sherlock _want to do it again?_

“So you liked it?” John’s face broke into a slow smile—an expression that made Sherlock’s stomach do loops. He rolled his eyes.

“Smug doesn’t look good on you, John.”

“I rather think a little gloating on my part is allowed." Sherlock's blush deepened to a most unflattering amaranth colour. "But let me get this straight," John continued.  "You were embarrassed that you enjoyed yourself?”

"More that I allowed myself to get lost in the moment and let things progress so far. I am not usually susceptible to sentiments like lust."

John merely rolled his eyes. "Let me guess, when you go to bed with someone, it's usually a calculated and well planned move?"

"What is so wrong with that?" Sherlock threw up his hands in frustration. First Molly and now John was questioning his romantic (if you could call it that) methodology. "When you approach such interpersonal relationships with a logical plan, I find that the involved parties are more likely to achieve the desired outcomes."

"Wow. It's a wonder you're single, Sherlock." John said, dryly.

"My relationship status has always been by my own choosing," said Sherlock defensively.

"Okay, fine." John raised his hands in acquiescence. He shifted uncomfortably on the gurney, the paper sheet crinkling under him. "But where does this leave us?"

Sherlock felt equally as uncomfortable. He focused on John, attempting to glean some idea of what would be the correct answer to this. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.

“It’s obvious there is some attraction here between us,” said John, gesturing between himself and Sherlock. “But I think we can agree that these aren’t ideal circumstances to be starting up a new relationship?” His left foot jiggled where it hung just above the floor. Sherlock watched it, realizing that John was nervous of how Sherlock would respond.

Truthfully, Sherlock was disappointed. Just as he had told Molly, he enjoyed spending time with John. However, John was right; something inside Sherlock told him that it would be a waste of something potentially great to pursue this now.  

“I do agree. We barely know each other, and I’ll be heading back to London for the Fall Term in just a few weeks—“

“Exactly,” John visibly exhaled. “Maybe when we’re both back in London…” he trailed off and shook his head. He looked speculatively at Sherlock.

“What?”

“Do you believe in fate?”

Sherlock snorted. “ _Amor fati_. Fatalism is a sound logical argument that I have accepted. But I have a suspicion that is not precisely what you are referring to.”

“No. I’m not talking about some Nietzschean construct here. I’m talking about two people meeting purely by chance, as if by some predestination,” John caught Sherlock’s exaggerated eye roll but ignored it and looked down at his hands, clasped in his lap. “Look. All I’m saying is if something is meant to happen, whether it happens right now or in six months, it’ll happen."

“You don’t think that’s putting the cart before the horse?" asked Sherlock. It felt like a lot of pressure to place on a relationship that didn't even exist yet.

“Not necessarily. I’m not making you sign a contract or anything. We’re just agreeing not to enter into anything now. When we're both back in London, if things haven't changed, we'll just see what happens."

"And in the meantime?"

"And in the meantime, we’ll be friends."

Sherlock stared. "Friends? I...I don't, I uh...I don't really—“

"You _do_ have friends, right?"

"I have co-workers, family, acquaintances, but no, there is no one I would call a friend."

"Well then, Sherlock Holmes, I am glad to be your first friend," said John, smiling and eyes sparkling. He stuck out his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock took his hand, shook it, and found he didn't want to let go.


	9. Chapter 9

_13 July, 16:56 Central Africa Time Zone_

_Kibogora Hospital, Kirambo, Rwanda_

 

Over the weeks following their agreement to become friends, John and Sherlock saw each other nearly every day; mostly over food, cups of tea (brewed by John) or long walks. Depending on John’s schedule at the hospital, he would ride his bicycle up to the dig site to have lunch with Sherlock and the research team.  He enjoyed the company of the researchers and took a miniscule amount of pleasure watching Sherlock struggle through interacting with people. Call him a sadist, but John liked to watch the man squirm a little bit.

John couldn’t help but notice of the difference in Sherlock when they spent time alone. Around others, Sherlock appeared bored, listless, and fidgety. He had a low tolerance for soliloquizing (though Christ knows he did enough of it himself) and when he did do more than sit there silently brooding and offering an eye roll, he was a terrible judge of his audience, either speaking at length about some topic only of interest to him, or saying wildly inappropriate things that either affronted or embarrassed. John was unsure how to interpret Sherlock's change in character when they were alone. Sherlock enjoyed (or at least pretended to) lingering over tea and talking, sometimes for more than an hour at a time. The eye rolling was usually kept to a minimum of once every twenty minutes (John was counting his blessings on this one) and sometimes he allowed John to speak for a full five minutes without interruption. In the weeks since they had established their friendship, they had spent countless hours talking about everything and absolutely nothing at all; swapping childhood stories (5-year old John’s imaginary friend Frankie; Sherlock’s first fist fight at age nine over a pair of pinched roller skates), favourite telly shows (John: _I Love Lucy_ and _Fawlty Towers_ ; Sherlock: anything with David Attenborough) and foods (John: roast chicken and Black Forest Cake; Sherlock: anything that came in a takeaway container), celebrity crushes (John: Daniel Craig and Scarlett Johansson; Sherlock: “I refuse to dignify that question with a response.”), and dream holidays (John: Fiji; Sherlock: Montréal).

On this particular day, Sherlock had finished up his research, bicycled down to the hospital, and sat patiently in the hospital waiting room while John to finished up his shift. Dropping off the last of his charts at the nurses station, John came to Sherlock, stripping off his white coat as he did.

“All right? You haven’t been waiting long, I hope?”

“Not too long, just a few minutes. Gave me a chance to catch up.”

“On what, exactly?” John asked. Sherlock sat on a metal folding chair, empty hands clasped loosely in his lap, his long legs stretch out in front of him casually.

“I had some mental filing to do,” Sherlock tapped his right temple with his pointer finger. “It gets crowded up here and if I don’t organize, I can never find anything when I need it.” His hand dropped back in his lap as he looked up at John with a completely straight face.

“Right,” said John slowly, an amused grin playing across his face. “Well let me just change out of my scrubs and I’ll be ready to go in a jiff. You okay to wait another minute or two?”

Sherlock waved him away with a dismissive gesture and John headed into the staff lounge. Three minutes later he returned to the waiting area, dressed in a short sleeve, plaid oxford shirt, khaki shorts, and his trainers.

“Ready?”

“Ready,” replied Sherlock, standing and following John out the main hospital doors. They stopped just outside, John breathing in the fresh air. He hadn’t been outside since his walk from his room this morning—over ten hours ago.

“Where to today?” he asked, shading his eyes against as he looked up at Sherlock. “Your pick.”

“Let’s walk down to Kivu. Shouldn’t be too many midges at this time of the evening.”

“All right,” said John and they set off.

On the days when John worked through lunch, this had become their habit: a pre-meal walk followed by dinner in the hospital canteen before Sherlock trekked back up to camp. Usually they alternated choosing the destination, and John had noticed Sherlock’s predilection for Lake Kivu, which lay less than a kilometre to the west of the hospital. It was an easy walk, staying on the roads that wandered through the village of Kirambo. It was slow going though; John liked to stop and chat with the villagers they passed. He had been in Kirambo now for almost eight months and recognized most everyone, at least by sight. Former patients and family members liked to stop John, and with the limited amount of Kinyarwanda that he knew, he was able to have short conversations. John could tell that it made Sherlock uncomfortable, all of the strangers, but he never complained. John had introduced him to much of the village on their first few walks to the lake. Sherlock never said much, though John had a hunch that even after just a couple months in country, he had as good a grasp on Rawandan as John did.

As they walked the dirt paths of Kirambo, people waved at them from doorways and children ran up to John to shake his hand, something they seemed to find eternally amusing. This was something John had come to find that he loved. Serving at Camp Bastion, John’s patients were soldiers only—he had had no interaction with any Afghanis and had only picked up a word or two of Pashto over the years that he served. He had never expected to enjoy being a part of the community, something that was undeniably true here in Kirambo. The community of soldiers he served at Camp Bastion, while a different sort, was as much a community as the people who smiled up at him now. As he and Sherlock continued to move through the village, John realized that this was something that he knew he would long for no matter what direction his career took next. To feel not only as though he were making a difference, but also knowing that his patients valued his contribution in the community.

John had never been one to do much planning for the future. He had jumped into the RAMC figuring he would serve until he was done. Matt’s death had unequivocally brought an end to that phase of his life, but it was only when he stepped off the plane at Brize Norton, that he realized he would have to figure out something to do with the rest of it. Again, he had given no thought to his life after the WHO, a job that he figured he’d continue to do until he was through with it, for whatever reason. Lately though, he had begun to think more about life after Rwanda. He could apply for a transfer and work somewhere else besides Rwanda, but that would still keep him out of the UK. He could leave the WHO altogether and find something in London, an idea that held more appeal to him now than it had two months ago.

It was pointless to deny that he was making plans for his future with consideration to the man walking beside him now. John and Sherlock had not spoken again about their non-relationship or its future since their conversation in the exam room three weeks ago. John wasn’t sure where this was going, but he did know that he had already begun looking forward to returning home to London for his holiday break. At that point, he expected he had better have some idea of what he wanted out of his life, both in terms of his career and his personal life.

They had finally come to the edge of Kirambo, and the water of Lake Kivu sparkled beckoningly through the trees. As the children fell back and returned to their mothers calling them for dinner, John saw Sherlock relax beside him. John gave a quiet chuckle at his expense and Sherlock caught his eye, aware that he was being laughed at.

“Your adoring fans finally gave it up, I suppose,” Sherlock scowled, craning his head around to watch the retreating children.

“Oh hush,” said John laughing. “They’re just excitable kids.” Sherlock made a _grumph_ -ing noise in his throat and John elbowed him chidingly. They broke through the treeline at the edge of the lake and headed down to what John had come to think of as “their” spot: a large tree that had fallen out of the woods, balanced on the muddy bank of the lake, and hung out three metres or so above the water of the lake. John carefully followed Sherlock out onto the log until they were clear of the bank and directly above the water. They settled on the log, it’s wood smooth under them. John carefully unlaced his trainers, pulled off his socks, and set the shoes next to him, swinging his bare feet as he did so. Sherlock’s boots remained firmly on his feet, and John knew the look Sherlock was shooting his way: something to the effect of _how plebeian of you, John_. He ignored it.

“How was your day?” he asked Sherlock. “Were you able to match those femurs you had found the other day?”

“I did, yes. Chas was able to help me pair them up and give them an approximate age…” As Sherlock launched into a summary of his day, John studied his face. This evening, the sun was a blaze of persimmon in the hazy sky. A soft, warm breeze ruffled the dark curls on Sherlock’s head. The low angle of the light had reduced Sherlock’s pupils to a pinprick and their normal pale slate-grey colour had darkened and taken on hints of blue. The last few weeks had brought out a persistent sun-flush high on Sherlock’s cheeks, as well as a constellation of freckles, which John found altogether endearing. John’s gaze had dropped to Sherlock’s heart shaped mouth when he realized the lips were no longer moving and the only sound around them was that of the lake lapping against its shore.

“John,” Sherlock’s baritone voice rumbled in that way that stirred up sensation low in John’s abdomen. John’s eyes snapped back up to Sherlock’s eyes.

“Huh? Sorry, I drifted a bit there. You were saying something about Molly?” John hoped that had been what Sherlock was talking about. He had decidedly not been paying attention and it likely showed.

“John,” Sherlock said in that same voice. “You can’t look at me like that.”

John felt himself blush, but decided to feign innocence. “Look at you like what? I wasn’t looking—“

“Like you are hoping I’ll kiss you.” Sherlock leaned forward and invaded John’s space. His eyes dropped closed and John heard him inhale sharply, as if trying to _breathe_ John in. John scooted down the log, putting a few more centimetres of space between them.

“I—I wasn’t,” he stammered, a jittery sensation prickling over his skin and making his foot swing below the log nervously.

“You were,” Sherlock said, eyes open again and a dark eyebrow raised. “We had an agreement, John. Don’t look at me like that if you expect me to honour our agreement.”

“We had an agreement,” John repeated. _Damn the agreement!_ He really wanted to lean back towards Sherlock and snog that smirk right off that smug face of his. But after agreeing to limit their relationship to “just friends,” they also decided that included a moratorium on all things physical. It was bloody frustrating, but something in John’s gut made him feel as though it would be worth it to wait. Not just for the delayed gratification— _though that’ll be well worth it_ , thought John with a flare of excitement—but when he finally took Sherlock to bed, he wanted it to mean something greater than just scratching a mutual itch.

The last few weeks had proven to John that while Sherlock could be a stroppy prat, he was someone that John undeniably felt a deep connection to. He fervently hoped that Sherlock felt similarly, though the man was as unreadable to John as a cave full of hieroglyphics. Occasionally, John would catch Sherlock with a look on his face; a puzzled expression, as if he were trying to suss John out. For a man who could read what exactly John had eaten for lunch as well as how many days it had been since John had done laundry, there seemed to be something about John that stumped him.

“You’re right,” said John as Sherlock settled back in his own personal space on the log. “Of course you’re right.”

“Of course I am, John. Really, you may as well go ahead and accept that I am right 92 per cent of the time.”

“A bit of an egomaniac, are we?”

“Hardly. Just a self-confidence that has been reinforced by decades of evidence.”

John could hardly argue with that. He picked at the log under his thighs, tossing a bit of bark into the water beneath them. For a few moments they were they were quiet, enjoying the open water around them and the companionable silence. After a minute, John had the sudden urge to hear Sherlock’s voice again.

“Tell me about your—“ 

“Nope,” Sherlock interrupted. “Dull. I’m tired of playing of these tedious ‘first date’ conversations. Come on John, ask me something at least slightly interesting.”

“Fine.” John cast about for something Sherlock might find suitably _interesting_. “Tell me about the first case you worked on. Is that better?”

Sherlock’s eyes took on an eager and excited glint. “Oh yes, John. That is a very good story.” He straightened his posture looked out across the lake.

 

* * *

 

On the horizon, the sun was aflame and sinking swiftly below the mountains on the opposite shore. John hardly noticed though, as he stared rapturously up at Sherlock’s face. More than just the deep timbre of his voice and his animated features, Sherlock was a great storyteller, and his ability to lose himself in his own narrative cast a spell that John was finding it hard to break away from.

“And that’s the tale of the Vernet Garden Murders,” said Sherlock, his hands falling limply to his sides from where they had been gesticulating throughout the tale of his first foray into detective work.

“Brilliant,” John breathed, his voice a mere whisper into the growing dusk.

Sherlock turned his head and caught John’s gaze, holding it as his own eyes crinkled into a small smile. “Really? You think so?”

“Bloody fantastic—I mean, yeah, it was brilliant,” John said, blushing at the same time.

Sherlock’s smile broadened and John felt a clench in his gut—something he had felt the whisperings of over these last couple of weeks began to voice itself in a louder murmur—and he had to look away. He reached for his socks and trainers, tugging them back on in turn.

“We should probably head back,” he said as he laced up the left shoe. “I’m famished. Are you hungry? Will you stay for dinner?”

“I’ll stay for a bit. Not too hungry though,” replied Sherlock, taking the hand John had extended and allowing himself to be hauled to his feet. They carefully made their way back to shore and began picking their way through the trees.

“So how often do you help out on cases then?” asked John.

“Every couple of months or so. I have obligations to my department at the university that keep me busy, but I make time for cases when they come up,” said Sherlock. He held a low-hanging branch up out of the way as John ducked below it. “My connections with the Met are actually how I came to be hired for the teaching position. I finished my PhD shortly after helping with my first case and was looking for a postdoc fellowship. A few of the faculty at UCL work on a consulting basis for the Met and when the fellowship opened up in the Forensics department...well I suppose the quality of my fieldwork and research outweighed my difficult personality.” He shrugged.

“You say that like you’re a complete ogre to be around,” said John, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “I’ll admit that sometimes you can be a bit of a prat, but you’re basically harmless.”

Sherlock shook his head, a small scowl on his face. “I have a limited amount of patience for people, John. I’m afraid I’ve given you a false sense of who I am.”

John reached out, grabbed Sherlock’s elbow and pulled him to stop. They stood, facing each other in the middle of the dusty road that led back to the hospital. “Have you lied to me in any way? Have you pretended to be someone you’re not?”

Sherlock shuffled his feet, looking uncomfortable and refusing to meet John’s eyes directly. “No. No, of course not. I’ve been nothing but honest with you.”

John gave his upper arm a squeeze and then dropped his hand back to his side. “Well then I have no doubt that the man I’ve come to know is the _true_ Sherlock,” he said as they set off again. “And I have to say, I quite like him.”  
  
Beside him, Sherlock blushed and appeared momentarily speechless. The hospital came into view as they crested the last hill.

“I feel comfortable with you, John, like I do around no one else.” Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper and John thought maybe that he had imagined the words, but then Sherlock spoke again, just as quietly. “I don’t know what that means, and I can’t deduce the implications of it, but it’s true.” Instead of replying, John grasped Sherlock’s left wrist in his right hand, holding on tight.

They had reached the hospital’s courtyard, and John once again, dropped his hand. “You’ll come in for a bite?”

“Sure, for a moment,” replied Sherlock, looking up at the dark blue sky. “I’ll have to head back soon.” John nodded.

They had settled at one of the tables in the hospital canteen, John’s plate mounded with food, while Sherlock’s held only a few smaller servings, before they spoke again.

“How did you come to be a doctor?” Sherlock asked, pushing his sweet potatoes around his plate.

“I was a good student in school and scored well on my GSCE’s. At that point I didn’t really have any particular ambitions, but when you have good marks, people are usually saying stuff like ‘oh, you should be a doctor.’” He chewed a mouthful of plantain, considering. “I was good at biology, and have always liked working with people, so I figured ‘why not?’ My mum was so chuffed when I told her, at age fourteen, that I wanted to be a doctor. She would brag about me to all her friends, going on about how nice it would be to have a doctor in the family. By the time I took my A-levels and graduated, I felt like I had little choice but to go on to medical school. Fortunately, I enjoy it and it's been fulfilling.”

Sherlock regarded him, speculatively. “But then you decided to join the military,” he said, stating a fact instead of posing it as a question.

“Uh, yeah. I did.” John didn’t care to begin the conversation about Matt and John’s military career. Not only was that too heavy for the present time, but also John didn’t think he was ready to talk to Sherlock about Matt. He wasn’t sure what that meant, his own hesitancy about broaching the subject, but there it was. Sherlock seemed to sense John’s unease and thankfully didn’t press the issue.

“Your mother’s disappointed you’ve spent your medical career abroad.” Again, a statement and not a question. John acknowledged this with raised eyebrows, but answered anyway.

“Yeah, I suppose she is. I guess it’s harder to show me off to her friends when I’m saving lives on other continents. It’s also harder for her to set me up with so-and-so’s daughter when I’m never home.” He shrugged trying to adopt an air of nonchalance, but caught Sherlock’s eye. “The few people I’ve taken home to meet my mum have been women.” He coughed nervously. “Just, ah...just so you know.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but continued to watch John over his teacup as he took a long swallow. John watched the muscles of his throat working through the process of deglutition and his body began a low-grade hum. It was this moment that struck John. He found that he was obsessed with this simple physiological process and wanted to watch Sherlock do it time and time again. Mouth, pharynx, epiglottis, and oesophagus. The contraction of the hyoglossus, genioglossus, and styloglossus. John wanted to run his fingertips over the smooth, pale skin of Sherlock’s throat and feel him swallow.

Sitting in the half-lit hospital canteen, in the presence of a handful of hospital staff, and eating rapidly cooling sweet potatoes and _ugali_ , John Watson realized that he was lost to this man. He wanted to watch him swallow and then take him home to his mum, for Christ’s sakes. _Who the fuck am I??_ John Watson doesn’t pine. He doesn’t swoon. And he certainly doesn’t want to sit around, mooning like some gormless moron and watching people _swallow!_ John Watson is a practical man, a man who has sensible relationships with _nice_ people—usually, but not limited to women—not poncy, self-obsessed academic types who look like they just simultaneously stumbled out of an archaeology tent in Giza (the outfit and the smudge of red dirt across one cheekbone) and a lover’s bed ( _God—but that hair!_ ).

John stood, stumbling a bit on weak knees and snatched up both his and Sherlock’s empty mugs. “More tea?” he asked, not sticking around to hear Sherlock’s response before practically running over to the table that held the electric kettle and teapots. He needed a minute, at the very least, where he wasn’t face to face with the column of pale neck that was currently the source of his own personal crisis. As he waited for the water to boil, John stared unseeing at the dregs at the bottom of his teacup. This, whatever _this_ was between him and Sherlock, had gone from a physical lusting, to a tentative camaraderie, to a deep friendship, arriving at a full blown pining over the course of six weeks. His feelings had moved so fast, John thought that he may be suffering from mental whiplash.

The water had boiled, and as John filled the teapot, he took several deep breaths. This didn’t change anything, he knew that. He had been taken by surprise by the voracity of his feelings, and was struggling to get a hold on them. John felt like he was a rock climber, fingertips scrabbling at the edge of a rocky cliff, grasping at something solid to hold onto as he tried to pull himself up and over the summit. He still knew that it would be foolish for many reasons to start up anything with Sherlock leaving in seven weeks. They would have their chance, though. John would be returning to London for the holidays and he and Sherlock would talk and figure everything out.

John returned to the table, full mugs in hand. Sherlock was tapping at his phone, seemingly unaware of the cataclysmic shift of John’s emotions. John allowed himself a few seconds of unabashed gazing, his eyes roving over the smallest details of Sherlock’s face. ‘Beautiful’ was about the only word that John could attribute to the crystalline grey eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the rose-red mouth, and the carefully mussed curls.

 _Pathetic moony teenager_ , said a little voice in his head.

“I probably should be going,” said Sherlock, not looking up from his mobile.

John looked at his wristwatch, surprised at how late the hour had grown. “Will you be all right getting back?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine.” Sherlock finally looked up and caught John’s eye. “Thank you for dinner, John.”

There was something of a look of understanding and open honesty in Sherlock’s eyes, and for a moment, John was panicked to think that Sherlock had guessed the sudden depth of John’s heart. But then, Sherlock blinked, and the look was gone, replaced by his usual expression of detached practicality. He stood, tossing back his head and downing half of the fresh tea.

“I’ll get those,” said John as Sherlock began gathering up his dishes. “You had better hurry on back up to camp.”

“Thanks,” said Sherlock, tucking his mobile into his trouser pocket. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow?” he asked, sounding a bit uncertain.

“Of course. My place or yours?”

“Lunch tomorrow? You’ll be out on your rounds anyway, right?”

“Yes. Great.” John leaned over the table to gather up Sherlock’s dishes. He felt Sherlock’s warm hand descend onto his shoulder, squeezing briefly. John looked up in surprise. Their touches were limited to the friendly and unintentional—a hand up from sitting on the log by the lake, or an accidental brush of hands as they both reached for the teapot. This, like John’s grip on Sherlock’s wrist earlier that evening, was entirely different. Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a small half smile. He squeezed John’s shoulder again, then dropped his hand, and was gone.

John dropped back into his seat, head hung low and left arm crossed over his chest, gripping his right shoulder. He sat there for several long minutes, seeking to trap the warmth in his trapezius muscle that Sherlock’s hand had left there.

 _Pathetic_ , said the voice again 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: Kinyarwanda is the national language in Rwanda. Sometimes it is also referred to as Rwandan.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The length here is a bit of an aberration. I had no intention when I set out to write this chapter for it to be nearly double in length, but that's just how it wrote itself. No amount of editing could cut it back, and while I thought about splitting it into two, it wouldn't have made sense story-wise. Regardless, I hope you'll enjoy it. Happy holidays!

_20 August, 10:22 Central Africa Time Zone_

_Gafunzo Project dig site, Gafunzo, Rwanda_

 

“It’s amazing the kind of junk one can acquire after twelve weeks of living in the bush,” commented Molly as she tossed two spare notebooks, a handful of writing implements, and a dog-eared copy of _Robbins and Coltran Pathologic Basis of Disease_ into the open box at her feet. “ _Eugh!_ ” She exclaimed, withdrawing her hand from her cupboard. A dead, but rather large centipede dangled between her index finger and thumb.

“Be glad that’s dead,” said Karyna, her voice muffled from where she was digging through a box under one of the long tables set up in the tent. On her knees, she crawled backwards out from underneath the table, dragging the box with her. She rocked back to her heels and stood, unceremoniously dumping the box on the worktop. “The other night I was walking to the latrines and nearly stepped on one of those Bush snakes.”

“Oh, that was you?” asked Molly. “All the screaming?”

“Ha. Ha,” she answered dryly.  “I didn’t scream...much.” Karyna continued to sort through the bin in front of her. “Oi! Sherlock, are these yours?” She held up a wooden handled trowel and brush. Sherlock looked up from where he was transcribing notes, squinted at the tools in her hand, and shook his head ‘no.’

“No. They’re Lincoln’s. Look at the initials on the handle.” He bent back over his laptop, typing furiously. The women behind him continued their chatter, but Sherlock tuned them out in favour of his own thoughts.

The research team would be leaving Gafunzo in three days and there was a lot of work to be done before then. The dig had been completed; earlier that week they had held the reburial ceremony for the remains they had excavated. Now all that was left was the tedious chore of cleaning and packing. Sherlock was not the only one at camp walking around in a cloud of tension and anxiety; several of the researchers were scrambling to meet deadlines with publishers or their departments. Furthermore, after twelve weeks of being in each other’s hair, tempers were short and the team was starting to wear on each other’s nerves. Arguments and petty squabbles over who used up all the water in the solar shower and didn’t refill it or whose turn it was to make supper were breaking out with increasing frequency. Everyone, for the most part, was eager to get home and back to indoor plumbing and reliable electricity.

Sherlock on the other hand was feeling more than just his normal end of the dig anxiety. He loved fieldwork; be it an archaeological dig or working a case with Scotland Yard. Teaching allowed him to establish a name for himself through his research, and it had the added benefit of keeping him in London where he could be available to the NSY for cases. But the end of every dig gave him a feeling of melancholy that was inescapable. Sherlock had withdrawn from the research group over the last week, drawing inwards on himself and avoiding even Molly and Lestrade.

He was emotionally compromised and spent every waking minute evaluating his sanity. The last few weeks had brought one Major John Watson, M.D. into his life and loathe as he was to admit it, Sherlock was struggling to come to terms that in just a few days he would be face to face with a life without John.

Never before had Sherlock been reliant on anyone for any emotional reason. He had been a fully independent child, raised by a steady rotation of hired household help and only peripherally by his mother and father. Mycroft had left for Cheam when Sherlock was just three years old and as such, Sherlock had been reared virtually as an only child. When it was his turn to leave home and begin the gauntlet of boarding schools, he had isolated himself, earning himself the diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder from several child psychologists. It wasn’t until he was a teenager at Harrow that he learned that the occasional socialization with classmates kept the teachers and school psychologists at bay. These friendships were always superficial and lasted only as long as they were beneficial to Sherlock.

Oxford introduced Sherlock to a variety of people, some of whom he found tolerable and who took their studies as seriously as he did. Would he call them friends? Perhaps, but never were they deep friendships and Sherlock never hesitated to abandon them when they had run their course. As far as romantic relationships went, Sherlock never had the patience nor the inclination to begin such attachments. Over the years he had casual relationships that were mostly physical in nature, but again, these were usually short-lived and devoid of any sort of romantic attachment on his part.

Now here he was, in the midst of what was possibly the most inconvenient moment of his life to be growing sentimental about someone and he was struggling to deny the way that John Watson had knitted himself into the weave of Sherlock’s life. In all honesty, John’s appearance was extremely ill-timed. Sherlock’s professional obligations were his entire life right now: he was chasing tenure, conducting research, had several articles in different stages of composition and publication, teaching courses and advising students, serving on faculty committees and the other departmental twaddle he was forced to submit himself to, and trying to find time for cases with Scotland Yard when he could. There was simply no room in Sherlock’s life for John Watson.

And yet. Sherlock was horrified with himself for even considering making room for John. He could take fewer cases with the police. He might be able to drop one or two of his research projects or politely decline the latest offer to edit another round of articles for ArchiLib. But why would he do these things? This wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes would never put another person above his work, would never sacrifice his career for another person. And yet, he was, inexplicably, considering it. If he had learned only one thing since the moment that John had sewn back up the torn flesh of his leg, it was that having this man in his life was something that he had never known he was missing.

 

* * *

 

 _29 June, 16:03_ _Central Africa Time Zone_

_Gafunzo Project dig site, Gafunzo, Rwanda_

 

Tuna and sweetcorn had never been one of Sherlock’s favourites, but unfortunately it was a staple of a lot of digs. The bread was a dry and crumby, further adding to the unpalatable state of the entire meal. Sherlock glanced across the table at John, checking if he was finding the sandwich equally as dismal. Apparently not, as he had already finished his and was eyeing Sherlock’s abandoned half with undisguised hope.

“Oh go ahead,” Sherlock sighed and pushed his plate across the table to John.

“Ta,” said John, smiling. “Have my apple?”

“No, thank you.” Sherlock shook his head and sipped slowly from his tea—prepared by John.

“Is this a common occurrence here, afternoon tea? I feel like I’m sitting at Claridge’s, minus the whole running water situation of course.”

Sherlock snorted. “Claridge’s has never served tuna and sweetcorn in all its long existence.” He caught sight of John’s raised eyebrow and interpreted his unspoken question. “It’s a bit showy, but mummy does enjoy taking tea when she’s in London visiting. She prefers the Ritz, but my brother would divulge state secrets for a piece of the chocolate gâteau at Claridge’s.”

John rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a handful of people arrived and sat down around them, depositing cups of tea and plates of biscuits. Across the table, Sherlock huffed audibly, but said nothing.

“You must be Dr. Watson,” said Kayrna, sitting to Sherlock’s right.

“Ah, yes. Yes I am,” John said, shaking her proffered hand.

“ _You’re_ Dr. Watson?” asked Lestrade, who was sitting next to John. He seemed a bit sceptical at John’s identity and his eyes kept darting back and forth between John and Sherlock, as if trying to sort something out.

“I am,” said John, a bit bemused and taking the inquisition in stride. “Do you need to see some identification?” He made to reach into the back pocket in his trousers for his hospital ID card.

“You just seem a bit too, forgive us, too _nice_ to be hanging out with the likes of this prat.” Lestrade gestured at Sherlock with his teacup. John bristled, the fingers of his left hand drumming on the tabletop. The fact that he seemed insulted on Sherlock’s behalf, ready to defend him to these virtual strangers, made Sherlock’s heart leap. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock cut him off.

“I have some redeeming qualities, Lestrade,” he said, tracing the rim of his own cup with his index finger. “Unlike yourself, who is practically useless and hasn’t spoken to your wife since you left England.”

John looked shocked, but Lestrade simply laughed. Sherlock caught John’s eye and dropped him a wink ( _a wink?!)_ , attempting to ease any remaining tension. Over the past month, the research team had taken Sherlock’s prickly personality in stride. There was an easy exchange of insults and ribald jokes that cemented a tenuous camaraderie that usually came with living together in the rough for an extended period of time.  

“I think you’ve just proved my point, Sherlock.” Lestrade turned to look at John once more. “Have you discovered any of these alleged redeeming qualities yet?”

John glanced at Sherlock quickly and his look made Sherlock’s heart beat just a bit faster. “The jury is still out on that one, I’m afraid.” Given the elevated pulse Sherlock could see beating away in John’s carotid artery, Sherlock suspected John was also thinking of The Kiss from ten days ago. Testing his theory, Sherlock let his tongue flick across his bottom lip, his gaze never leaving John’s. Sure enough, John’s mouth opened an infinitesimal amount, eyes locked on Sherlock’s mouth, which quirked into a small smirk.

“John, I don’t believe you’ve met everyone here,” said Sherlock, deliberately fingering the top button on his khaki shirt. Flirting was not something that came naturally to Sherlock; it required too much subtlety and nuance that he found tiresome in most social interactions. Seduction however, was something with which he was a bit more familiar. Years ago, when he had been seeking out bedfellows, he had no qualms exploiting his ability to read his partner’s desires and physiological responses. Sherlock found that he did not feel the slightest bit of remorse about torturing John through the means of seduction; he certainly wasn’t the one that had decided on abstinence during this phase of their friendship. But John was a romantic, something that Sherlock would have ordinarily scoffed at as sentimental drivel, if it weren’t so bloody endearing. Still though, the man deserved to be tormented just a little bit.

Sherlock lifted his hand away from his shirt and indicated the man sitting next to him. “This is Greg Lestrade, he’s our project leader.” John blinked owlishly, returning to the moment and glared at Sherlock, knowing full well what Sherlock had been doing. Sherlock arched one eyebrow and gave a coy, half-shrug. John turned to the man Sherlock had indicated, shaking his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Greg,” he said and gestured to Sherlock. “It’s kind of you to take on this charity case. I hope his department is paying you a bit extra to take him off their hands for the summer?” Sherlock rolled his eyes and went on to introduce John to the rest of the people that had joined them for tea.

Within minutes, John had launched into a story about something or other that had Lestrade and the others laughing so hard a few of them were wiping away tears. Sherlock let John’s words wash over him as he watched the man comfortably chat with people he had only just met. _How is he so relaxed?_ Sherlock could barely tolerate them and he had spent nearly every waking minute of the past four weeks with them. John had only just met them and already was seemingly at ease in their presence.

As Sherlock sipped from his now cold tea, he regarded the crowd sitting around the table. In any situation, John’s ability to make the people surrounding him comfortable was truly remarkable. The body language of everyone was relaxed: they leaned forward, like sunflowers straining towards the sun that was John. Each of them was smiling and their postures all at ease. Sherlock noticed this phenomenon when he had visited John at hospital as well. The other doctors and hospital staff respected John and looked to him for advice and leadership. Furthermore, they enjoyed his presence and would often seek him out.

This was dramatically different from how people behaved around Sherlock. He was under no false impressions of how people perceived him. He did not put people at ease, he rarely joked around, and found small talk and personal anecdotes tedious. Friendly was never a word anyone would use to describe him. Furthermore, his penchant for speaking honestly and bluntly regardless of the circumstances often came off as abrasive. He had little patience for the common habit people had of relying more on body language and the unsaid words to convey their true intentions.

Despite all of this, Sherlock recognized the peace that he felt when he was around John. It was moments like this one, when he could observe John as he interacted with others, that he recognized the appeal and what it was that people find so alluring. John Watson was not like other people. Sherlock relished the time spent in his company and found himself longing for just a smattering of John’s attention—to have just a sliver of the John’s consciousness directed at him. Did this make him ordinary? As ordinary as the others seated around him that clamoured for just a second of John’s attention?

Amid a crowd of people, he leaned forward, reaching towards the sun.

 

* * *

 

_July 6, 18:23 Central Africa Time Zone_

_Gafunzo Project dig site, Gafunzo, Rwanda_

 

“So what’s on for dinner tonight?”

Sherlock dug through the plastic bin filled with foil, vacuum-sealed packets and extracted a couple, tossing them onto the stainless steel worktop. “How about chicken cacciatore? Or there’s lamb vindaloo with rice?”

John groaned dramatically. “Sherlock, I cannot eat another one of your awful MREs. I guarantee you that both of those options will taste the same, and not at all like either chicken cacciatore or lamb vinadloo.”

“Well, what does it matter if they don’t taste as they should? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly at a Michelin star restaurant. Perhaps you should lower your standards a bit?” He tossed the silver packets back into the bin, kicking it back into place under the worktop. “Do you want to head back down and eat at hospital? I’m a little weary of _ugali_ and yams, to be honest.”

“Me too,” said John nodding in agreement. He looked around the small kitchen, a thoughtful look in his eyes. A temporary parquet floor had been laid directly on the red dirt. Two stainless steel worktops stood opposite each other, bins and boxes full of non-perishable food stacked underneath the tables. A small iceless cooler sat in one corner of the large tent and held the essential perishables (milk for tea and butter for toast). The only other appliances were a large, propane camping stove with four burners, the ubiquitous electric kettle, and a camping sink that drained into a 25-litre bucket standing underneath. John knelt down and peered into the bin that held most of the communal food and started pawing through the tins and boxes.  
  
“You do remember that I don’t cook,” said Sherlock, reminding John in case he suddenly expected him to whip up something.

“Yes, a fact that I’m still puzzled by,” answered John, depositing the few tins he had selected on the worktop and moving over to the shelf holding the small jars of spices and dried herbs. “How is it that someone as brilliant as yourself never learned to cook? It’s not that hard, you know.”  
  
Sherlock wasn’t sure if he should be flattered at being called ‘brilliant’ or insulted that John was suggesting that he couldn’t handle something as basic as preparing a simple meal. “It may be easy, but it requires time and patience. Why waste the time cooking when I can have takeaway brought to me?”

“Because it tastes better? Because it’s healthier for your? Because of the sense of satisfaction that comes with sitting down and enjoying a meal that you prepared yourself?”

“Not worth it,” replied Sherlock, dismissively. John shook his head in disbelief and began opening tins of chickpeas.

“Where are the pots and pans in here?” he asked, looking around.

“How should I know?” Sherlock answered, but came around the worktop to help him look.

 

Ten minutes later, Sherlock found himself with a rather sharp knife in his hand, tears streaming down his face, and an unsympathetic John instructing him on the proper way to chop an onion.

“I had no idea that cooking was so undignified,” grumped Sherlock, wiping his watery eyes with John’s borrowed handkerchief.

“You’re doing a fine job,” offered John, adjusting Sherlock’s grip on the onion. “Just tuck your thumb back with the rest of your fingers there. I’ve sutured you up once already, and don’t care to have to do it again so soon. Good. Now dump all of that in the pot. Wait! Not the onion skins.” John darted forward to pluck the papery skins from the pot.  
  
“Wouldn’t it be easier if you just did this all yourself?” whinged Sherlock half-heartedly.

John laughed and pointed a metal spoon at Sherlock. “If I’m going to cook you a delicious meal, the least you can do is help. Would you find the cumin in that pile over there and measure out a tablespoon into the pot?”

Soon the kitchen was filled with the rich smells of tomato, turmeric, cumin, and onions and a small crowd of hungry archaeologists had gathered in the doorway.

“Sherlock,” said Lestrade. “I didn’t know you knew how to cook?”

“Of course I can cook! You don’t think someone educated at Cheam, Harrows, and Oxford can do something as simple as prepare a meal?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John bite back a laugh and shake his head.

“It looks to me like John is doing most of the cooking,” said Molly, catching John’s expression.

“Yes, all right Molly. Thank you.” said Sherlock, loudly. He lifted the lid on one of the pots on the small stove and peered authoritatively in at the contents. “John, I do believe the rice is finished,” he pronounced.

“Uh, not quite. You see how there’s still a bit of water in there? You need to wait for that to finish cooking off.”

Sherlock slammed the lid back down. “Well it’s _almost_ finished then.”

“Why don’t you pull out dishes and cutlery for everyone,” suggested John. He turned to the onlookers. “Will you all be joining us?”

 

As the group settled down to eat, silence descended in the dining tent. For a full two minutes, the only noise was that of chewing and the occasional loud sip of tea.

“This is the best bloody chana masala I’ve ever had,” announced Nate, breaking the silence. Noises of agreement echoed around the table.

“Yeah. Thanks, John,” said Lestrade. “You’re welcome to come cook for us anytime,” he said, winking.

“Come on now! I helped! Don’t I get any credit?”

“Sherlock, we all tried you spaghetti marinara that first week,” said Lestrade, grimacing at the memory. “No offense mate, but you should leave the cooking to John from now on.”

Choosing not to dignify that with a response, Sherlock merely took another bite of the curry.

“If all of John’s cooking is this good, Sherlock, you’ve got to marry this man,” said Molly gesturing with her fork between the two men.

Sherlock froze mid-chew, the food in his mouth turning to sawdust. He couldn’t swallow or look at John, so instead he shot Molly the coldest look he could manage with a mouthful of half-masticated chickpeas. Molly smiled slyly at him. Next to him, John cleared his throat loudly and took a sip of his tea.

“Uh, ta, Molly,” John stammered. “Ta very much.”

The rest of the meal passed easily and without any more suggestions of marriage or lifelong commitment. Lincoln offered to clear away the dishes, and everyone else drifted off to their various evening pursuits, leaving John and Sherlock at the table.

“I should probably be heading back,” said John. “Unless you’ve made something for pudding? A nice trifle perhaps? With crème anglaise?”

“Oh shut up.”

John laughed and placed his hand on top of Sherlock’s where it rested on the table. He gave it a light squeeze and let go as he stood, stretching his back. His t-shirt rose up to reveal a bit of skin dusted with fair hair above the waistband of his jeans. Sherlock’s mouth went dry and he averted his eyes, swallowing the rest of his tea in one gulp.

“ _Aaahh_ ,” John yawned. “I’m knackered.” He picked up his and Sherlock’s empty teacups and carried them over to where Lincoln was standing at the utility sink. “You’ll come down tomorrow?” he called over his shoulder to Sherlock who was staring down at the tabletop. “My shift is from one to midnight, but we can have lunch before I go on duty, if you like.”

Sherlock’s thoughts were sluggish from curry and the closeness of John. The whole evening had felt comfortable and intimate: cooking together, arms brushing against one another while standing in front of the stove, sipping tea after dinner, making plans for the next day. Without making the conscious effort, Sherlock easily swapped the setting of rural Rwanda with that of his flat in London. _Well that’s interesting_ , he thought. The ease at which John slotted himself into Sherlock’s everyday life was somewhat startling. Here, in Rwanda, their _whatever-this-was_ felt almost dreamlike. They were living in a bubble that was untouched by the trivialities of real life: money, squabbles over whose turn it was to do the washing up, dirty socks on the floor, and what to watch on the telly.

“Hello? Earth to Sherlock? Can you hear me Major Tom?” John was standing next to Sherlock, waving his hand in front of his face.

“Oh. Sorry, all that curry has gone to my head, I think.” _That, and just thinking about the rest of our lives together._ This was ridiculous. They had agreed just to be friends, and Sherlock was already picking out paint swatches and imagining sharing _The_ _Times_ over tea and toast. _Get a hold of yourself, Holmes._

“Right,” said John, giving Sherlock a concerned look, and reached out to pat his shoulder. “If this is how you’re going to be whenever I cook you a proper meal…” he trailed off. “Anyway, you’ll come for lunch tomorrow?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve got a report to finish before we begin the next round of excavation on Wednesday. What about at the end of the week? Dinner on Thursday?”

“Yeah that’ll work,” agreed John. He sighed. “Well, I had better go.” The hand on Sherlock’s shoulder slid down to cover Sherlock’s bicep. John pinched the fabric of Sherlock’s shirtsleeve between his thumb and middle finger, rubbing the fabric as though to memorize the texture. The touch was soft, familiar, and incredibly distracting. Then, he dropped his hand and raised his gaze to meet Sherlock’s, a wistful look in his eyes. “I’ll see you Thursday then?”

“You will. Be safe getting back.”

“I will.” And then John left, leaving Sherlock behind with his thoughts full of curry and the future.

 

* * *

 

_07 August, 10:03 Central Africa Time Zone_

_Gafunzo Project dig site, Gafunzo, Rwanda_

 

Sherlock did not typically work with an audience, let alone an audience he was interested in impressing. True enough, archaeology is a team effort, at least until the artefacts were out of the ground. Once his prize had been deposited on his worktop, it was more of a one-man show, preferably without spectators. At UCL he had the run of one of the smaller forensics labs: his odd hours and penchant for chasing away interlopers with a well-placed insult pretty much guaranteed that he could work undisturbed. Sherlock was extremely particular about his work environment—eighteen degrees Celsius, fifty-five per cent relative humidity, and 75-watt lighting. He had installed an excellent quality sound system in his lab back in London and preferred a classical soundtrack when he was working; Schoenberg and Webern had proved to be some of the best music to deter visitors.

Of course preferences on things like lighting and relative humidity had to be tossed out the figurative window on dig sites. Currently the temperature was in the high-twenties, but lately the afternoon high had been closer to the thirties with a relative humidity nearing ninety per cent. The lack of electricity meant he had to keep to daytime working hours, instead of the late-night schedule he preferred. All of this was an inconvenience, but one he could easily work around. What he struggled with was the necessity of sharing a workspace with a dozen other people. Archaeologists were usually quite particular about using their personal tools, but he was still continually finding things that did not belong to him mixed in with his things. It was not unusual for the research tent to be full of archaeologists and most of the team seemed content to work in each other’s space—chatting about their findings, asking questions or opinions of each other, swapping dig stories. Instead of the background noise of Mahler and Pärt, he was forced to listen to Molly and Karyna’s incessant chatter or Lestrade’s horrible jokes.

As the team’s only forensic archaeologist, he had suffered through an annoying amount of interest in his work through the entirety of the trip. He truly detested explaining himself, and found the frequent requests to narrate his work tedious. Furthermore, the team had discovered his knack for deduction and were eager for him to perform his talents on their own projects. It was tiresome and made him feel not a little bit like a performing monkey.

As he was discovering more and more these days, John Watson was the exception to these rules, instead of the normative. He enjoyed having John around when he was working, and the good doctor had proved to be moderately helpful in several instances when a small degree of medical knowledge was necessary. The week previous, he had excavated a skeleton with several nasty bone fractures. Most of the victims from the mass grave had died of one or two gunshot wounds. This particular skeleton however showed signs of several massive traumas: the entire right ilium and ischium was shattered and the left maxilla, zygomatic, and sphenoid bones were equally as wrecked.

Sherlock had been puzzling over the level of injury to the remains ( _male, 45-60 years old_ ) laid out in front of him for nearly twenty minutes now, jotting down hypotheses in his notebook as they came to him. Blessedly, the tent was empty of additional archaeologists and he was allowed to think in peace. John, who wasn’t due at hospital until later that evening, was sitting in a camp chair in the entrance to the tent, reading one of his dull mass-market paperback crime novels. The silence that had permeated the tent for the past fifteen minutes was broken by the occasional buzzing insect and Sherlock’s quiet humming of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony. It was a comfortable and tranquil setting, and Sherlock was surprised to find that he was finding John’s quiet company comforting.

The comfort didn’t keep his frustration with the current set of remains in front of him at bay, however and Sherlock heaved another heavy sigh—his third in the past five minutes.

“What is it, Sherlock?” asked John good-naturedly, without looking up from his book. “Bones giving you some trouble?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but hummed the opening scherzo theme of Mahler’s second movement even louder in further demonstration of his frustration. Predictably, John marked the place in his book and set it aside, giving Sherlock his full-attention.

“Stumped? Do you need to talk it out? I can be a pretty good sounding board, you know,” John asked, spreading his hands in a “bring it on” sort of gesture.

“I don’t get ‘stumped’,” huffed Sherlock. “The answers are simply eluding me at the moment.”

“Well, do you want to take a break? Come back later with fresh eyes?”

“No, John, that won’t help. I’ve only been working for a couple of hours. My eyes are plenty fresh.”

“All right, fine,” said John, shrugging in acquiescence. “Just keep the caterwauling to a minimum, or you’ll start attracting animals.” He bent and picked up his dull book once more, flipping through pages until he reached his bookmark.

Sherlock bent back over his bones, index finger tapping his lips thoughtfully. Quiet descended once more, as Sherlock moved on to the Ländler melody of the second movement and kept the volume to a non-animal attracting level.

Suddenly he stopped humming and tilted his head, regarding the back of John’s head.

“The grocer did it, you know.”

“Hmm?” queried John, absently.

“He works for the mafia—the green grocer. He’s one of their hit men. I believe he and the renegade federal agent have a standoff when the agent unwittingly stops off to buy some peaches on his way home. He recognizes the grocer from the crime scene, there’s a gunfight during which the agent is shot, non-fatally—don’t worry, and backup arrives to arrest the grocer cum hit man.”

John had looked up from his dull book and was regarding Sherlock with a murderous expression. “Just because you’ve read this one before doesn’t mean you get to ruin it for me, Sherlock! I was enjoying this!”

“I haven’t read it. I value my free time too much to fill it with drivel like that.”

“Well I happen to like this ‘drivel’. So thanks for ruining it!” John dropped the book to the ground without marking his place. “If you haven’t read it, then how do you know about the green grocer?”  
  
“You left the book behind last week. I found it and made it through the first chapter before I grew bored. It didn’t take too much before I had the rest of the plot sussed out, at which point there wasn’t really any need to continue reading it, was there?”

“Yes, but _I_ hadn’t figured it out yet!” bemoaned John. “I was enjoying it and would have liked to work out the end on my own.”

“Oh,” replied Sherlock, as though he had never thought of that possibility. “Well I’ll endeavour to remember that for next time.” John shyly smiled at him and it appeared all was forgiven. John seemed to like it when Sherlock alluded to a future together—a future in which John would read dull crime novels on the sofa in Sherlock’s flat and Sherlock would make an effort not to ruin the plot of said dull crime novels. When either of them made mention of a yet to be determined relationship, Sherlock always experienced a _swooping_ sensation in the pit of his stomach and John gave him a shy little smile, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. Sherlock had to admit that it was fairly adorable.

“Anyway,” said Sherlock, fluffing his hair nervously with one hand. “Since you’re not busy, I wouldn’t mind a medical opinion here.” He gestured to the skeleton.

“Of course,” John answered as he stood and came over to stand beside Sherlock at the worktop. “What seems to be the issue?”

“Every other set of remains we’ve excavated from the site has had similar injuries: clean gunshot wounds, a few broken bones and dislocated joints, and a few blunt force traumas. You’d expect all of that from a situation like this.”

“A situation like what?” asked John quietly.

“Prisoners, rounded up and held somewhere, then executed and buried in a mass grave,” Sherlock said simply. Beside him, John stiffened slightly, but remained quiet.

“Sorry,” he said after a beat of silence. “You get used to death, obviously, working in a war zone. But this is a different kind of carnage…” John shrugged like he had run out of words.

“Is it?” asked Sherlock. “In my experience, violent deaths are elementally all the same. There’s a killer and a victim, sometimes more than one of each, and the outcome is consistent even if the details change. The end of life.”

“True. But there’s still something about this that hits me differently from what I saw in Afghanistan.”

“The Rwandan genocide was portrayed by the Western media as a slaughter. The victims were defenceless and stood no chance against the Hutu’s,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “In your war, it’s two seemingly equal sides actively engaging each other in conflict. You see it as more of a fair fight. The numbers are also a bit different. Only about five hundred British forces have died since the beginning of the war in 2001. Between fifty thousand and a million Tutsi died in the one hundred day conflict.” Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “Again, the outcome is the same—a loss of life. But it’s the details that are different.”

“Yeah,” breathed John. “You’re right.”

They stood quietly for a moment, lost in their own thoughts, before John shook himself and spoke again. “You, uh, wanted some help?”

“Oh, yes!” said Sherlock. “This poor fellow suffered a massive amount of trauma. Aside from the shattered hip and skull, he had bad break in his right fibula and ulna and a few broken ribs. His patella is shattered as well, and there is a crack in the femur below. He was obviously beaten, but why just him and no one else? And why with so much force?”

“Why do you say that? His leg wasn’t broken, just fractured. The beating wouldn’t have been too extreme, or you’d see more than some fractures and a couple of broken ribs.”

“But how do you account for the pulverization of the hip and face?”

John didn’t respond, simply crossed his left arm across his chest, supporting his right elbow. He worried his bottom lip with his right thumb and index finger. Thirty seconds passed where he circled the worktop quietly, occasionally bending over the remains for a closer look.

“Do you have a magnifying lens?” he asked, holding out his hand. Sherlock dropped his magnifying glass into John’s open palm. It was a heavy thing: wooden lathed handle, worn smooth from centuries of use, topped with a thick ocular lens surrounded by a brass ring. The weight of it surprised John and he looked up at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

“Bit old-fashioned,” he said.

“It’s a Corfield. Manufactured in Wolverhampton in 1822. Mycroft gave it to me after I solved my first case for Scotland Yard.”

“Mycroft?”

“Oh, er, my brother. He’s a nuisance and a total arse, but he gives great gifts. Not that I would ever say that to his face.”

“Hmmm,” John hummed, bowing back over the mangled pelvis of the skeleton before him, this time, peering through Sherlock’s magnifying lens.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, handing the lens back across the table. “Just here. Come look.” Sherlock came around the worktop to stand next to John. He bent at the waist to examine where John had indicated, a spot where a larger piece of bone had separated from the sacrum. “See how the connective tissue has broken down? And those small cracks in the diaphysis? I would guess this man had a very mild case of _osteogenesis imperfecta_.” Sherlock straightened up and regarded John very closely.

“Go on,” Sherlock said slowly.

“Well, uh,” John fidgeted and blushed slightly under Sherlock’s close scrutiny. “There are several healed breaks and fractures, more than the average person might have. You can also tell from the bowing in the limbs. The femur, tibia, fibula, humerus, radius, and ulna all have a very slight curvature to them.” Sherlock cocked his head, continuing to stare, which made John’s eyes widen in something akin to alarm. A quiet buzzing filled Sherlock’s head, drowning out all other noise and thought to a murmur. Sherlock blinked, as all of his perception narrowed singularly onto John. Sherlock saw nothing else, save for John Watson.

“ I–I would guess,” continued John, stuttering slightly, “that he wasn’t beaten with any more force than others, b–but there were already weak points in his h–hip and facial bone structure,” John finished in a rush.

Something finally clicked in Sherlock’s thoughts, causing him to break away from his inspection of John’s face and begin pacing the small tent, hands palm-to-palm and tucked under his nose. His thoughts began revving back up to their normal, analytical speed.  

“He was protecting him,” muttered Sherlock.

“I’m sorry, who?”

“John, pass me that folder over there,” Sherlock demanded, ignoring John’s question.

“Which folder?”

“The red one, with the site surveys.” John handed him the correct folder and Sherlock paced to the empty end of the worktop, spreading various sketches of the dig site out. Long fingers danced across the papers until he found the one he was looking for and plucked it from the stack. John had come to Sherlock’s side and silently peered down at the drawing. Sherlock could sense his unspoken questions and head him off.

“Each time we dig down another layer of the site, we take a sketch. In our case, we label each set of remains with a number that allows us to record their location relative to the other remains in the grave. Obviously the bodies in this grave were buried with little or no identification, but we have been able to identify some of them. More can be done once we’re all back in our labs with more equipment.” He gestured to the bones next to him on the table. “This collection of bones was found next to the set of another male, 25-35 years old, number 0067-235A.” He pawed through the papers on the table in front of him, picking a stack of papers clipped to one another out of the mess. One long index finger trailed the paper, flipping one page over another until he found what he was looking for.

“Ah,” he breathed, running his finger horizontally across the page. “Number 0067-235A is one of Molly’s.” Sherlock spun in place 180-degrees and crouched down to peer under the tables in the tent where numbered and labelled clear plastic bins were stacked. By this time, Sherlock was back up to full-tilt in his analytical process. It felt wonderful, this part of the work. His blood was pumping, his mind was clear, and his thoughts were clicking along at a delightful pace. Despite the relatively normalcy at which he was currently operating, there was something different about this particular instance of deductive reasoning. John was still standing, by the worktop, arms crossed over his chest, silently watching the search. Sherlock was pleased with how he felt working under John’s watchful eye. It felt as though every decision, every deduction had a new purpose and importance. Sherlock normally did the work because it pleased him. But now, here in this tent with John watching, he wanted to do the work, to solve the mystery because it would please and impress John. There was a new sort of clarity blooming over the entire process.

“Here it is,” Sherlock whispered, pulling the bin out and carrying it back over to the table. Removing the lid, he and John leaned over the contents: white acid-free tissue paper wrapped around and among ecru coloured bones. In a clear plastic sleeve resting atop of the tissue paper were more papers, these pertaining specifically to number 0067-235A.

“Oh good, Molly’s pulled his DNA already,” Sherlock reached around John and snagged his notebook. He made a few notes as he murmured to himself, echoing his scribbles. “Molly...DNA...for...number...0067-235A. Compare...to...number...0067-236A?” He set his notebook aside and reached into the plastic bin, brushing aside extra tissue paper.

“John, _osteogenesis imperfecta_ is genetic, correct?”

“It is. Inherited or it can be caused by a genetic mutation. I haven’t heard of any sort of racial or ethnic variations, so it would be as common to find someone here with O.I. as it would be someone in a western country.”

“Yes, all right. Good. Can you take a look at these bones here and see if you notice anything that would indicate another case of O.I.?” Sherlock waved a hand over the contents of the bin and fixed another look on John.

“You want my help?”

“Why not? You correctly diagnosed the first case—“

“Sure but—“

“Just take a look. Molly won’t mind and it’s not like anyone’s life is dependant on your diagnosis. I just want your medical opinion. I _trust_ your medical opinion.” John still seemed dubious, but nodded his head in agreement.

Sherlock left him to it and returned to the side of the first skeleton. Reaching across the workstation, he pulled two nitrile gloves from a box, snapped them on, and set to work. Twenty-five minutes later he had five plastic centrifuge tubes with samples of pulverized bone packed away for testing back in London. He turned to find John bent over the bones he had laid out on the table. Sherlock pulled off his gloves as he came to stand behind John, humming “Dem Dry Bones” under his breath.

“I’m glad to see you still recall the basics of human skeletal anatomy.”

“Yes, Dr. Morris would be thrilled that I retained something from his lectures,” John joked dryly.

“Well, doctor? What is your medical opinion?” asked Sherlock leaning to look over John’s shoulder. With any luck, there would be evidence of the degenerative bone disease and the two skeletons could be linked together, bringing the mystery of their identity closer to a conclusion. Sherlock’s mind tripped along, thinking ahead to testing DNA and the other lab work he wanted to conduct once back in London.

John turned away from the table, his chest bumping against Sherlock’s, who stood close enough to see the dusting of pale freckles across John’s cheekbones. All thought screeched to a halt and their surroundings faded away Sherlock watched as John took in a lungful of the air between them, pupils simultaneously dilating with arousal.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, his voice slightly strangled sounding. “You’re standing a bit close.” He reached up and placed a warm palm on Sherlock’s chest, directly over his pounding heart. As John pushed gently, his fingers curled slightly inward, grasping the cotton fabric of Sherlock’s khaki shirt; his body’s instincts of drawing Sherlock closer and pushing him away warring with each other.

“John…” moaned Sherlock. He inclined his neck and brought his face cheek-to-cheek with John’s, as though he was preparing to whisper a delicate secret into John’s ear. Instead, he ghosted his mouth over John’s earlobe and down the side of his neck, all the while breathing in the heady scent found there. John’s fingers tightened their twisted grip in Sherlock’s shirt as he groaned and tilted his head away, accepting Sherlock’s phantom of a caress. The atmosphere in the tent was heavy and thick as London fog with their mixed arousal and mutual torture. _Christ_ , Sherlock wanted nothing more than to trace John’s sternocleidomastoid muscle with the tip of his tongue. The memory of John’s flavour was a faint memory along with the rest of their shared kiss those weeks ago.

“No….” whispered John with fierce longing and Sherlock thought he could hear his own frustration echoed in that one uttered syllable. “No!” he said more forcefully this time. John’s fingers relaxed their grip in Sherlock’s shirt and he shoved him fully away from him. Sherlock shook his head to clear the dull roar that filled his ears. John reached up and scrubbed his face with both hands, a distressed groan emerging from behind his palms. Sherlock rubbed his own palms, slightly damp with desire and adrenaline, on his trousers. His stomach quaked with a variety of emotions. He can’t believe he had pushed John into that situation. Hell, he had practically trapped him against the table and mauled him without even a second thought to John’s request of keeping their relationship platonic.

“John, I’m sorry—“ he began, but John held up a hand to stem the beginnings of an apology.

“No need to apologize,” John said sounding sad and resigned. “I should probably go. You’re a little too tempting at the moment and I don’t want to force you into a situation you’ll resent me for.”

“Resent you?” Sherlock spluttered. “I don’t think—“

“Sherlock, please,” pleaded John. “I’m incredibly embarrassed right now and fighting a hard on.” Sherlock (barely) managed not to confirm that pronouncement for himself and kept his eyes on John’s rapidly flushing face. “I’m just going to go now.” He waved a hand at the bones on the table behind him. “There is evidence of _osteogenesis imperfecta_ in this set of remains as well. I think you’ll find that the two men were related when you run DNA analysis.”

John sidestepped Sherlock and practically ran out of the open tent flaps. “I have to get to work,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll see you later, Sherlock!”

Sherlock stood in the mouth of the tent, watching as John disappeared over the horizon. This time he seemed to be the one left standing with a racing heart, an aching erection, and a buzzing head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: I’m certain I’ve taken some real creative license here in terms of what’s realistic amenities on a rural archaeological dig. My research and the few archaeologists I’ve talked to have told me that electricity and potable water is rarely a given and a kitchen such as the one described here is unheard of. However, this is my story, and in my story John cooks and in order for him to cook, there must be some sort of kitchen facilities. I beg pardon from all of the archaeologists out there who wish they had such palatial digs (pun intended) as the ones I’ve imagined here.


	11. Chapter 11

_25 August, 6:31 Central Africa Time Zone_

_Gafunzo Project dig site, Gafunzo, Rwanda_

 

Sherlock checked his wristwatch for the fourth time in two minutes, his foot tapping nervously in the dirt. The van holding their gear and tools was packed and idling in the road and most of the research team was milling around a second van, looking bleary-eyed and impatient to be on their way. Sherlock glanced down at his mobile grasped in his hand, and sighed at the lack of messages. His stomach had been in knots for the past twenty-four hours and it was beginning to feel like the tiny amount of toast he had eaten at 5:00 am that morning might be making its way back up his gullet. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Molly cautiously approach him.

“Sherlock,” she said quietly, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “We can’t wait any longer. We’ve all got planes to catch tonight in Kigali.” Her expression was full of sympathy and suddenly Sherlock couldn’t stand it. He violently twisted his shoulders and upper body around, throwing off her hand.

“Then let’s go,” he growled, defences up against her pity.

“I’m sure something’s just come up, Sherlock. If we could wait for him any longer, we would. But Laney’s flight is at noon…” she trailed off as though she too was stalling for time.

“It’s fine,” he said firmly. “Let’s go.” He was embarrassed that he was causing such a scene. The whole team was waiting on Sherlock, and they all knew who he himself was waiting for. It was mortifying. Furthermore, he was berating himself for exposing himself this way, exposing his feelings to his team and exposing his heart to John. Reaching down, Sherlock grabbed his bag sitting at his feet and turned towards the van. The research team started climbing in and Lestrade started the vehicle, its exhaust pipe stirring up a cloud of red dust. Behind him, Molly gave his shoulder another pat and climbed into the front passenger seat. As much as he wanted to, Sherlock refused to look behind him, refused to scan the horizon one last time searching for a sandy coloured head of hair. His hand reached up to the door handle, preparing to hoist himself up into the last empty seat in the van, when—

“Sherlock! Wait! Sherlock!” A shout rang out and Sherlock spun around, his heart in his throat. A fair-haired figure on a bicycle was tearing across the open field, the rising sun behind him throwing him into silhouette. “Sherlock!” John practically launched himself off of the bicycle and it fell to the ground in a clatter, wheels still spinning aimlessly. Sherlock’s bag slipped from his shoulder to fall to the ground as John crossed the last couple of metres separating them on foot. Suddenly Sherlock had an armful of gasping John and a pair of lips pressing against his own. Shocked and stunned, Sherlock stiffened initially, but quickly recovered, his own mouth softening against the kiss. It was chaste and closed-mouth, but John’s hand had slipped up to cup the back of Sherlock’s head, his fingers weaving into the dark curls there. Sherlock’s hands gripped the back of John’s neck and his hip, a finger slipping under his blue scrub top and stroking the warm skin there.

Behind them, cheers and wolf-whistles erupted, reminding Sherlock that he was standing next to a van full of his colleagues, exhibiting extremely unprofessional and decidedly un-British behaviour. He quickly detached himself from John’s mouth and used his grip on John’s body to put some space between them. John grinned wide and blushed, but Sherlock saw the look of sadness and uncertainty that flickered across his deep blue eyes; that look matched the emotions roiling in Sherlock’s own gut.

“You’ve got three minutes, Sherlock. Then we’re leaving whether you’re in the van or no,” Lestrade called out from behind the steering wheel. Sherlock nodded, grabbed John’s elbow and led him several yards away from the van.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” said John, still out of breath from his frantic bicycle ride and the kiss. “I just came off my overnight shift and rode up here as quick as I could.” He reached out and gently took Sherlock’s hand in his own, his thumb stroking Sherlock’s palm.

“John, I…” began Sherlock, but the words died on his lips. What should he say? Should he make some kind of declaration? A profession of feelings? A promise to wait for John?

They had seen each other only a handful of times after John had left Sherlock confused and aroused in the research tent. Their next meeting had been awkward and tense, neither of them brave enough to bring up the cause of the discomfort. Since then, there had been no mention of their almost-kiss and the palpable lust that was practically rolling off the both of them in waves was studiously ignored. Sherlock was miserable and frustrated; he not one to typically leave things unsaid, but he was willing to follow John’s lead in this situation.

The confusion and uncertainty he had been experiencing for the past weeks were coming to a head, and it seemed that now, now was the time to make decisions and take action—to either put up or shut up. John was looking up into Sherlock’s face, patiently waiting. Again, those sapphire eyes expressing every sentiment that Sherlock was attempting to suppress within himself.

“John, may I write to you? I’d like to stay in touch, if you’re agreeable,” Sherlock felt himself blushing and John gave a quiet chuckle.

“You had better stay in touch, you wonderful git.” John’s grip on Sherlock’s hand tightened briefly. “I want to hear all about London, and your students, and your cases. Ring me, Skype, or email, but you had bloody well keep in touch.” The uncertainty had faded slightly from his expression, and Sherlock felt something in his chest ease a bit. John took a deep breath, visibly preparing himself to say something. “We perhaps should have had this conversation days ago, but I suppose there’s something to be said about last minute declarations.” His hand travelled up Sherlock’s wrist until it gripped Sherlock’s forearm and held him fast. “I’m not asking you to wait for me or anything, but I’ve enjoyed spending time with you these last couple of months. I’ll be home for a bit over the holidays, and I’d like to see you then. Can I ring you when I get back into town? Would that be all right?”

“It would be quite all right, John.”

“Sherlock!” called someone from the van as Lestrade revved the engine.

“You should go,” said John. He rocked on his feet, obviously debating whether to reach for Sherlock again.

“Good-bye, John Watson,” said Sherlock softly, offering his hand to John, who gripped it fiercely.

“Good-bye, Sherlock Holmes,” replied John, a million emotions cascading over his features simultaneously. Sherlock gave a perfunctory nod, spun on his heel and returned to the van. He retrieved his bag from the dirt and with one last look behind him and a small wave, he climbed into his seat, pulling the van door shut.

 

* * *

 

 The van disappearing over the horizon kicked up a swirling cloud of dust. John had to cover his mouth to stave off a coughing fit, but he refused the cover his eyes, preferring a face full of red dust to missing the last glimpse of Sherlock. All too quickly, the dust cloud settled and the van was gone. Soon Sherlock would be on board the plane that would take him a full continent away from John.

John kicked at the sparse grass at his feet, his shoulders deflating a bit in defeat. _Well that didn’t go as I had hoped._ He wasn’t sure what he had expected; hell, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. “What is wrong with me?” he shouted out loud. Sherlock had made it quite clear that he was fine with anything. John just wished that he had more to offer. Why was he so cautious to tell Sherlock how he felt? John had had a speech prepared for this morning— _Sherlock; you’re brilliant and I’m bloody mad about you._ How hard would that have been to say? John tugged at his scrub top in frustration.

He turned and slowly walked back his abandoned bicycle, retrieving it from the ground and setting off back to hospital. Today was going to be a long day; he had just come off an overnight shift, so he didn't have work to distract him from the pang of loss he was feeling. As he straightened up, wheeling the bicycle back down the hill, he was frankly shocked at the depth of his emotions.

But, should he really all that surprised with the acuteness of the feelings that Sherlock’s departure had wrought from him? Wasn’t this proof positive enough that this could yield something real between them? John thought that he was being naïve to think that the intensity of his emotions regarding Sherlock would lessen over the next four months. But still, the time between this moment and December stretched in front of him, empty and uncertain. Here he was, at the start of a long stint of time away from Sherlock, the outcome of which was largely unclear.

The rest of the way back to hospital, he permitted himself a few minutes of emotional wallowing, vowing to himself to buck up and carry on by the time he reached the doors of hospital.

 

Showered, changed, caffeinated, and resolved, John left the canteen with his second cup of tea in hand. If he wasn’t going to sleep, and wasn’t on shift, he may as well catch up on some case notes. As he drew up to the nurses station, John saw Adelaide chatting with one or two other hospital staff members. She turned and caught his eye, as he sat down heavily in one of the empty chairs behind the station desk.

“G’day, Dr Watson!” she said cheerily. “All right?”

“I’m persevering.”

“Your glum face says otherwise, John. Sherlock left yet?”

“Just this morning. His flight leaves in a couple of hours from Kigali.” Adelaide leaned over and sympathetically patted his wrist. She then began to straighten her papers and charts on the desk in front of her.

“I know just what you need, John,” she said, standing and tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” John muttered morosely.

“I’m off for a shower,” said Adelaide brightly, ignoring John’s question. “I’ll meet you in your room in twenty-five minutes.”

“Oh, I’m not sure—“

“Twenty-five minutes, John!” she called over her shoulder.

It was clear that Adelaide wasn’t going to allow him to wallow in his puddle of self-pity until suppertime. John leaned over to check the staff schedule, noting his next shift wasn’t until the following evening. With a sigh, he stood, bid goodbye to the few hospital staff still gathered around and head for his room. So much for afternoon kip he had been contemplating. Sleep was an excellent avoidance technique.

 

 

Twenty minutes later there was a sharp knock on the door of his room.

“It’s open.” The doorknob jiggled for a moment and then swung open to reveal a showered Adelaide, arms full. “What’s all this?” asked John, regarding the bottles and packages she had dumped on the cotton coverlet on his bed.

“This,” she said, spreading her arms like a magnanimous lord showering gifts on his peasants, “is the patented ‘Adelaide Taylor breakup survival kit’.”

John shook his head. “Sherlock and I didn’t breakup. We weren’t, we _aren’t_ dating. We’re just friends—“

Adelaide held up her hand to cut him off and rolled her eyes at his protestations. “Save it, John,” she said rummaging through the pile on the bed. “Fine then. We’ll call it a ‘Just friends who want to bugger each other’s brains out but are being total wowsers about it so we’ll deny our feelings for each other and suffer needlessly’ survival kit.”

 “Oh come—“ John began to protest.

"None of it, John!” Adelaide selected a bottle of some ominous brown liquid, two packets of crisps, and a slightly smashed Starbar, from her stash. “Now, let’s stuff ourselves full of junk food and get utterly rotten!”

 

 

Seventy-five minutes and an inadvisable amount of mediocre whiskey later and John was feeling quite a bit more forgiving towards the universe at large.

“Mmmm, Adllllllaide! Addie! Such a beautiful arse…”

“Johnny! I didn’t think you were still interested!” Adelaide laughed.

“Not yours. I don’t want to look at _your_ arse anymore – no offense!” John shot up from where he was laying on the dusty floor of his room. “I’m sure yours is still a nice arse!”

“Pass me th’ bottle, John-boy, and allllll will be forgiven!”

“Bottle? Oh yes. Whiskey was a good idea, Addie. One of your best.” John blearily glanced around the floor, finding the bottle and clumsily handed it to Adelaide. “Toss me another packet of crisps, yeah?”

Adelaide sat up from where she was reclined on John’s bed and threw a bag of Monster Munch, hitting John squarely on the head.

“Oi!” he said indignantly as she laughed.

“So,” Adelaide said a moment later after her laughter had died off. “Professor Skeleton has a nice arse? I never would’ve thought, given how bony and lanky he is.”

“Mmmmm,” repeated John, sounding like a starving man regarding a banquet of his favourite food. “It s’lovely. So lovely and I let it slip right through my fingers. What was I thinking?” he bemoaned clutching at his head in misery.

“You were thinking with your brain instead of your cock, which was very smart of you. Or stupid? I’m not sure which…”

“Both,” replied John. “Where’s that bottle?” He scooted across the floor until he was leaning with his back against the side of his bed. Adelaide dropped the whiskey into his lap. John unscrewed the cap and took a swig straight from the bottle, wiping the mouth of it with the hem of his t-shirt before passing it back up to Adelaide.

“The thing is, Addie, I don’t know what I expect to happen when I see him again. What if things change before I get home? What if he meets someone? We didn’t make any kind of promise.”

Adelaide made a sympathetic noise and dropped a drink-clumsy hand down to pat John’s head. “John-o,” she sighed. “You obviously are nuts about him. You’ll just have to hope that your affection will still be there when you see him again. If it’s meant to be something, then it’ll work out.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, emphatically. “Honestly, why are you men such babies about your feelings? Why didn’t you tell him these things? Tell him how you’re feeling? Tell him that you miss him and that you can’t wait to see him in December? Tell him you hope that he’ll let you rub yourself all over him, and preferably without clothes.”

“But what if—“

“ _Augh_! Enough! Now listen you to me, John Watson.” Adelaide stood up from the bed, marched over and planted her feet in front of John. Her slight sway and the watery-eyed look John gave her as he craned his face up to regard her the only giveaways to the fact that this was not a sober conversation.

“I am happy to play agony aunt for you from now until December,” she continued. “I’ll listen to you moan about himself and his perfect arse. I don’t mind living vicariously through your epic romance of the century. But take my advice, please, and tell that man that you’re absolutely gone on him. It’ll make us all feel better.”

“All right,” John acquiesced.

“Good. You can’t mope around here for the next four months and expect us all to put up with it. We have work to do and people to help without you being all Heathcliff on the moors from now until the holidays.”

“You’re right.”

“I know I am,” she concluded with a nod and settled down on the floor next to John, both of them leaning up against John’s bed. “I’ll allow you tonight to wallow, and tomorrow to recover, and then I expect you to go back to saving lives tomorrow evening, or rather, tonight. What time is it?” John’s watch told them it was half two in morning.

“One more nip from the bottle and then I’m going to my own room to sleep.” She took the bottle, saluting John with it. “To you and your fine-arsed true love!”

John, rolling his eyes, took his turn and drank to Sherlock’s arse. For a moment, he and Adelaide leaned against each other in companionable silence.

“You’re a good friend, Addie,” hiccupped John.

“Ugh,” Adelaide laughed. “If we’re getting to the sad confessions portion of the evening, then I’m leaving. Up!” She stood, and grasping John’s hands, helped him to his feet. “Go and brush your teeth. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

As John prepped for bed, Adelaide cleaned up the party. She turned her back as he undressed to his pants and vest.

“Sorry I’m such a soppy drunk,” mumbled John as he climbed into bed. “Harry – my sister – she’s the fun drunk of the family.”

“S’alright,” replied Adelaide as she set a bottle of water and a packet of two paracetamol on his bedside cupboard. “You’re allowed to be soppy until the start of your shift tonight. Then I want John Watson, super M.D., back in place.” She helped John twitch his mosquito curtains in place.

“See you later, doc,” she called softly from the door. She supposed John’s snore could be interpreted for a “Thanks for everything,” or a “Goodnight!” of sorts.

  

* * *

 

_26 August, 2:33 GMT_

_Baker Street, London, United Kingdom_

 

A plane ride, several layovers, and a taxi away, Sherlock Holmes let himself into his stuffy flat. London was hot – hotter than Rwanda had been sixteen hours ago – and sticky. Sherlock was already dreaming of the cool and sterile air of his lab at UCL. But that relief would have to wait. After dropping his messenger bag on the coffee table and wheeling his suitcase into the back bedroom, Sherlock turned into the kitchen and filled the kettle. As he stood waiting for it to boil, Sherlock let his exhaustion and the buzzing of his brain spin out, filling the room with its white noise. It was hardly uncommon for him still be awake in these early morning hours, but between the long day of travel, the heat, and the miasma of emotions that filled his gut, Sherlock wanted nothing more than a cup of tea, a cold shower, and his bed. No doubt tomorrow was going to be an equally long day; he was surprised not to have heard from Mycroft by now. Aside from the demands of his family and his job, he had several messages on his mobile from DS Donovan begging for him to ring her when he got home. It was both gratifying to know how much he was needed here in London.

The kettle clicking off echoed loud in the empty flat. As he was filling his mug, his mobile rang. Sighing, he dug the phone from his pocket and confirmed his suspicions before answering.

“I really need sleep before I talk to you, Mycroft. Can’t this wait until, well,” he glanced at his watch. “The later morning?” Sherlock picked up his tea and carried it into the bathroom, setting it on the sink and sitting down on the lid of the toilet.

“Welcome home, little brother. I too have better things to be doing, so I’ll be quick.”

Sherlock toed off his trainers and tossed them across the hall through his open bedroom door. Without standing, he reached into the shower and turned the spray on. “Yes, I suppose running the country is a 24-hour job, isn’t it? How ever do you manage it?”

“I do my best, Sherlock.” Mycroft barrelled on. “Mummy arrived in town yesterday in anticipation of your return. She and I are taking tea tomorrow at the Ritz. 2pm. You’ll be there.”

It wasn’t really a question, but with Mummy of Mycroft, it never was. “Yes, yes. I’ll be there.”

“Splendid. I’ll ring off now. Good night, Sherlock.”

Disconnecting the call, he tossed his mobile after his shoes, stripped, and climbed under the cool water. Feeling the grime and sweat of travel wash off him, Sherlock rested his head against the shower wall. He thought back to that morning, the way his heart and stomach had leapt when he heard John cry out. He thought about the feel of John’s mouth against his, of the satisfaction of giving into temptation, brief as the kiss was. He thought of the feeling of the nape of John’s neck under his hand, and the simple _rightness_ of that moment; standing in the middle of a field, kissing John under the rising African sun. Shivering under the cool water of his shower, he thought of those few minutes, set in the context of the over seventeen million minutes of his life so far, and he ached.


	12. Chapter 12

TO: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

FROM: john.watson@who.int

Sat, 29 Aug 16:45 GMT

SUBJECT: Hello! from Rwanda

 

 Hi Sherlock,

How was your flight back to London? Did you get stuck sitting next to someone chatty on the plane? I always seem to find myself seated next to the most talkative people. Most of the time I don’t mind it – I love talking to strangers and getting a glimpse into their lives. It’s funny though, finding yourself intimately part of these strangers’ lives for such a brief moment of time, only to get up from your seat after landing and never see them again. Sometimes, in the week following a flight, I would think back to that person, and wonder what they were doing. It used to be that way, during my time in Afghanistan. I’d treat soldiers, sewing them up and sending them on their way, never to (hopefully) see them again. I think back, now and then, to the more memorable patients, and wonder where they are now, or what they’re doing?

Blimey, that took an unexpected turn! I had meant for this to be a casual, “Hi! How are you?” sort of email, but I just dove right on into the heavy stuff, didn’t I? How is home? How is London? Is the heat awful? I had a note from my mum last week and she said that it hasn’t rained in what seemed like ages, and that the heat was taking a toll on her back garden.

What have you been up to? Are you settling back into life? Preparing for the new term?

Well, I had better sign off now. Write when you can. Things are rather dull around here.

Cheers, John

 

* * *

 

TO: john.watson@who.int

FROM: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

Sat, 29 Aug 23:17 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: Hello! from London

 

John,

My flight was interminable. I was seated next to the most tedious German _frau_ who insisted in cataloguing each one of her precious dogs. Apparently she breeds Affenpinschers and thought perhaps I would enjoy a description of their lineage. I tried to explain to her that I was disinterested in any conversation with her, but it wasn’t until I reminded her of her sister’s recent brush with the law in America that she let the rest of the flight pass in silence. (Since I know you would have asked – a ticket stub from a parking garage at the Municipal Court of Atlanta dated three weeks ago, American Traveller’s cheques tucked into her passport, a stopwatch in her handbag for timing phone calls with her sister’s solicitor, and a pen with the law office’s name.)

I typically do not enjoy flying, for a myriad of reasons. It’s not so much that I am nervous, or afraid of the act itself. In fact, the certain death that accompanies plane crashes is far less nerve wracking than the uncertainty of other types of transportation fatalities. No, the reason I dislike flying is the boredom that accompanies it. No matter how much tempting reading material I pack, I’m never inspired to read once I’m in the air. I cannot sleep in such uncomfortable and confined spaces. I much prefer travelling over long distances by train, but as you know, Africa’s rail system is about as developed as America’s.

Your mother is right—it is insufferably hot here. Yesterday it was near 30 degrees. I’ve asked Mycroft if there is nothing in his power to do about it, but he seems unmotivated to help.

The fall term begins in a couple weeks. Most of my fellow faculty have returned to UCL from their summer holidays. In fact, I must end this missive here as I have a faculty meeting in fifteen minutes.

SH

 

* * *

 

TO: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

FROM: john.watson@who.int

Fri, 04 Sept 06:07 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from Rwanda w/ explosive lakes

 

Sherlock,

Sorry for the delay in writing. The rainy season has begun here, which has meant an increase in cases of malaria in hospital. The staff has been kept busy for the past four days and I’ve barely had time to sleep and eat. Fortunately we had a new batch of WHO staff arrive last week so they were fresh off the plane and ready to work. Unfortunately, that meant that some folks left for home or another posting. Thankfully Adelaide and Mike are still here and we’re trying to show the newbies the ropes in the midst of the influx malaria.

Last week, before the craziness began, I went fishing with Daniel from the village and his brother Ibrahim on Lake Kivu. There was little to catch that day, and Ibrahim admitted that the lake’s yields have been in decline over the last several years, but we enjoyed ourselves anyway. While we were out on the water, Daniel and Ibrahim told me about Lake Kivu’s fascinating history. Apparently it is susceptible to limnic eruptions, where CO2 trapped in the deepest water of the lake escapes the water in large amounts, basically suffocating all of the life around it. Have you heard of this? Apparently Kivu is one of three lakes like this in the whole world, all of them are in Africa. One such eruption occurred at Lake Nyos (in Cameroon) in 1986 and killed 1700 people and 3500 livestock. It’s horrifying, for sure, but still extremely fascinating!

What I think is especially eerie about this is the lack of warning that comes with limnic eruptions. There’s no noise, or preceding sign that alerts the oncoming disaster. There’s no way to predict when an eruption to occur. All this time, I’ve been living just kilometres from a ticking time bomb and had no idea. It’s a little jarring to suddenly be walking around with this knowledge, but I suppose it’s not so different from Afghanistan, is it?

Are you looking forward to the start of term? What are you teaching? If you don’t here from me by next week, I’ve probably either contracted malaria or been suffocated by a killer lake.

Cheers, John

 

* * *

 

TO: john.watson@who.int

FROM: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

Sun, 06 Sept 19:13 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from London w/ Molly says “hello”

 

Killer lake? Really, John?

I am not looking forward to the start of classes. Sometimes I truly resent having to suspend my research to prepare for the term. The only upside this year is that Lestrade has just been hired on by the faculty in the archaeology department. He, at least, is bearable, and not impossible to work with unlike the rest of the faculty.

Lestrade has encouraged me to take on a graduate research assistant. I informed him that students, even moderately intelligent graduate students, don’t like me and are a waste of my time. He reminded me that I would need a few students to write letters for my tenure file and that calling them all imbeciles, even if deserved, wouldn’t garner me any favours. And so, I have a new lackey. Mr. Wiggins is helpful occasionally, and is expedient in his coffee and tea fetching, so I suppose I can tolerate him for a little while.

Molly has insisted we meet up for lunch on a regular basis. I am allowing this in exchange for access to her lab, which has just received a new Shimadzu GCMS-QP2010 SE that I am eager to use. She sends her regards and hopes that you will let her take us out for drinks when you arrive in London. I’ve told her not to get her hopes up, that I’m sure we’ll be too busy for drinks with her.

SH

 

* * *

 

TO: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

FROM: john.watson@who.int

Thurs, 10 Sept   14:02 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from Rwanda w/ oesophageal ulcers!

 

Sherlock,

I think you barely tolerate me, so I have a hard time imagining you working with students. It’s a shame I’ll be home during the school holiday; I’d love a chance to see you interacting with your students.

Yesterday I had a surgical case, which as you know are pretty rare around here. A young male patient, 16 years old, presented with problems swallowing and breathing. I suspected an upper GI blockage and prepped the young man for an upper GI endoscopy. An hour later, I had cauterized a rare oesophageal ulcer and assured my patient he would make a full recovery. Not a glamorous or especially thrilling surgery but was happy to have the chance to help him.

There isn’t much else to report here; one of the other British doctors has taught the women who cook for us how to make cheese toasties. It was a delicious break from the usual menu, but it’s been five days in a row now of cheese on toast, and I never thought I’d wish for a bowl of yam and pigeon pea stew.

The lake remains dormant for another day, and I remain malaria free. There have been reports over that last few weeks of increased sectarian violence in the DRC. This isn’t anything all that new, and it’s far across the border. The WHO sends out these safety memos about once a month, so there’s not really anything to worry about.

Tell Molly I said ‘hi’ and that I’d love to get drinks.

Cheers, John

 

* * *

 

TO: john.watson@who.int

FROM: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

Sun, 13 Sept   02:44 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from London w/ Russian classical composers

 

Sometimes, when I’m alone in my lab in the basement of the Archaeology department, I conduct entire symphonies. The ideal time of day for this is late at night, as it is now. I’ve finished my work for the day and am debating on getting a taxi home, or just sleeping in my office before the lab I have to supervise at 9 AM. But I digress.

One of my favourite composers is Alexander Borodin – a Russian chemist and doctor-cum-composer. His compositions are extremely mathematical and yet retain an air of mystery that is entirely unexplainable. Math and science are precise; their existence based wholly on proofs and certainty. Yet Borodin is able to combine two such antipodal elements: the free spirit and expressive nature of music and the rooted-in-facts essence of science. His music is such a beautiful contradiction.

Please stay safe, John.

SH

 

* * *

 

TO: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

FROM: john.watson@who.int

Mon, 14 Sept   23:27 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from Rwanda w/ TOO MUYCH WHISKKEYY

 

Sherlockk!!!

I miss you! Is it ok if i say that to you? Africa is boring without you here and I wish you were here instead of in London teaching your swotty students.

I’m a little drunk, if we’re honest with ourselves. One of the doctors got a birthday package from his mates in America and they sent him a bottle of whiskey from his hometown in Kentucky. I like whiskey, do you like whiskey?

Rwanda is so so boring. I miss being a surgeon. I miss the trauma. I miss you and your pretty eyes. Adelaide says our eyes are a mark of our personality. She says that your eyes are stormy and that it reflects your deep running passions. I told her she sounded like a limp teen mag and to shut it, but then she said my eyes meant that I was strong and dependable and I thought maybe she was onto something? I can’t wait for December to get here. It’s so far away before I can see you again.

Please don’t be cross that I got drunk and sent you an email. I don’t want to send this to you, but Adelaide is sitting here and she is going to make me hit ‘send’.

Bye Sherlock! ;p

 

* * *

 

TO: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

FROM: john.watson@who.int

Tues, 15 Sept   10:05 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from Rwanda w/ complete and utter shame

 

Dear Sherlock,

I sodding hate whiskey. I sodding hate Africa. I sodding hate Adelaide and Dr Wilson whose birthday prompted whiskey and its consumption.

I am so embarrassed. Will you please do me a favour and delete that email and pretend that I never sent it?

Can’t talk for long. I have to crawl back to bed and die from embarrassment and/or this sodding hangover. Shall email again when you’ve discovered time travel and we can go back to a time when I didn’t send you that email last night.

Miserably, John

  

* * *

 

TO: john.watson@who.int

FROM: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

Tues, 15 Sept   21:19 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from London w/ family is tedious

 

You’re right, Adelaide does sound like a limp teen mag and her views on many things should be taken with as much credibility as one places on the latest issue of _Bliss_ or _Shout_. Perhaps you should stay away from the liquor for a bit? ;p ;p

I am having lunch with my mother tomorrow. Hopefully Mycroft won’t be there, otherwise I may have to fake a latent illness. Do you know of anything that I can pretend to have contracted in Africa that has an incubation period of twenty days? He recently received a promotion and will no doubtedly be insufferable as a result. Correction: _more_ insufferable than usual.

You mention being bored and missing trauma surgery. Have you considered what you might do when you finish up this rotation?

Time travel is dull. You should really be more excited for the discovery of travel between alternate universes. I frequently wonder what all the other versions of myself are getting up to. When I was too young to know better, I wanted to be a pirate. I wonder if there is a version of myself out there that is currently swashbuckling across the high seas. Whatever his occupation, I hope that at least one other version of myself has a similarly alternate John Watson for company.

SH

 

* * *

 

TO: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

FROM: john.watson@who.int

Sat, 19 Sept   06:31 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from Rwanda w/ some introspection

 

Sherlock,

I haven’t thought much about what I’ll do after this rotation ends. I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t dissatisfied with the way things are currently (probably shouldn’t be saying that via official email, but I’ve seen some of the photos that Adelaide sends her partner back in Australia. It’s downright _filthy_.) but I don’t imagine that my desire to help others will vanish as soon as I step back on British _terra firma_. I imagine a lot of this will depend on a series of conversations that you and I have. Not to put any sort of pressure on the situation, of course.

How was your lunch with your mother? Do you get on well with her? I’ve always been close with my mum. She doesn’t like that I’ve been away for so long – first Afghanistan and now this. I think it would be nice to be closer to her and my sister’s family. I don’t know my nieces very well and would like to be a bigger part of their lives as they grow up.

Its difficult to balance all of the expectations in our lives—what I want from myself and my career, the expectations from my family and what they need/want from me, and the expectations of friends and co-workers. Eventually, I imagine there will be expectations from a partner or spouse that will need to be considered as well.

After I came home from Afghanistan, I saw a therapist for a little while. She said that I put too much pressure on myself to conform to the expectations of others. I suppose I’ve just given proof to that theory, eh? She said that I am, to a fault, a chronic people-pleaser and she encouraged me to try harder to please myself and take the things that I want before deferring to the wants of others. My time abroad has definitely been against the wishes of my mother, but there were others who I would say influenced my decisions.

Anyway. What are your plans for the weekend? I hope you don’t spend all of it in the lab.

Fondly, John

 

* * *

 

TO: john.watson@who.int

FROM: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

Tues, 22 Sept   11:34 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from London w/ Molly is my human relationship counsellor

 

John,

I would not say that I am close to my mother. She has always been overbearing and seeks to have undue influence over my life. That being said, she has always encouraged me to pursue my interests and is rarely critical of my life choices. She and I get along better than Mycroft; Mother has always struggled with understanding Mycroft’s drives and personality. He is, as I have been told, very much like my father was in temperament and passions, which frustrates my mother.

The other day, while at lunch with Molly, she explained that when it comes time for you and I to have the discussions you referred to in your previous email, that I ought to offer some concessions of my own. She described relationships as equal partnerships in which both parties have an equal and vested interest. So you may want to be thinking about such things.

This being said let me be clear about one thing: I have no desire to influence or exhort you into making a decision about your future career plans. I know that we will have to have this conversation if we wish to begin things as we mean to go on. If there are sticking points for you, or things you might need for us to compromise on, than I of course am open to hearing those suggestions and may be willing to discuss them.

Molly also said we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves and begin this discussion via email. Not only is it perhaps premature (a point which I agree with), but this should really be discussed face to face. Unless you have other things to add at this time, I suggest we table all talks of this nature until we can have them on the same continent.

SH

 

* * *

 

 

TO: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

FROM: john.watson@who.int

Fri, 25 Sept   14:57 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from Rwanda w/ childhood injuries

 

Did I ever tell you about the time I broke my arm? After Harry was old enough, my mum would leave the two of us home by ourselves during summer hols. Mum didn’t work very far away, so if there had been an emergency, she was close by. But one summer, I was eight or nine, Harry had just gotten a new bike for her birthday. With her new mode of transportation, she gifted me her old pair of roller skates. But as I had yet to learn how to skate, she offered to pull me behind her bike. This worked fine for about a block and I’m sure you can deduce what happened next. Fortunately I had sense enough to let go of the towrope and escaped with minor scrapes and a broken right arm. I spent the rest of the summer collecting autographs from my mates and shoving lollypop sticks down my cast to scratch the skin beneath.

It’s been pretty quiet here this week. One of the young girls from the village fell out of a tree she had been climbing in and broke her arm, which made me think of my story. After I set and cast the arm, I gave her a marker and explained to her about collecting signatures.

Adelaide and a few other doctors leave middle of next month. I’ll be sad to see them go, but am taking solace in the fact that soon it will be my turn to leave.

How are you getting on with your young graduate assistant? Have you chased him away yet? Any recent cases with the Met?

John

 

* * *

 

TO: john.watson@who.int

FROM: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

Sat, 26 Sept   07:02 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from London w/ stubborn grad students

John,

I am beginning to suspect that my grad student is a glutton for punishment. Perhaps he is a masochist? I am not purposely trying to drive him away; it can’t be denied that he is worth keeping around. He knows my coffee and tea preferences and fetches them with little complaint. Occasionally he brings pastries as well. His competency with the research aside, he’s worth having around purely for the baked goods.

Yet, it has been three weeks and Mr. Wiggins hasn’t thrown me over for a different tutor. The other two students I have taken on this year (I know I haven’t mentioned them before which is because they’re not worth mentioning. Only of average intelligence.) have stuck around because they’re afraid of me and because I’m brilliant enough in my field. I am a difficult person to work with, as many can attest. What’s more, few people would claim to enjoy my company—I know that I have a prickly personality. Why Mr. Wiggins, and to a greater extent, _you, John_ , are willing to put up with me, is beyond my understanding.

There is a hint of fall in the air today. The temperatures at night are consistently cool and the leaves in Regent’s Park are starting to take on an autumnal hue.

Until December,

SH

 

* * *

 

TO: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

FROM: john.watson@who.int

Fri, 03 Oct   16:25 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from Rwanda w/ a rushed quickie

Hi Sherlock!

Just dropping a quick note to let you know that I’m alive and that I haven’t forgotten you. It’s been madness here. A few weeks ago, one of the rebel groups in the DRC staged a fairly bloodless coup in Bukavu. Bukavu is a bigger city just across the border in the DRC and this ordinarily wouldn’t be such a big deal (I wasn’t kidding about bloodless, only 4 people were killed), except now the UFDLC is using Bukavu as a sort of capital and ranging out into the DRC countryside, decimating smaller villages and mining towns. Again, while this is a tragedy, we’re hardly impacted here. Except on Tuesday we began seeing a few refugees from the villages closer to the Rwandan border. As one of the bigger municipal buildings on this side of the country, we’ve had a good number of refugees show up here seeking assistance. The hospital has turned into a bit of a de facto refugee triage centre. I’ve stopped counting how many people we’ve seen, but I think the hospital administrators are estimating over five hundred since Tuesday morning.

Obviously the hospital isn’t really equipped to handle this, but we’re making do. The WHO has sent another shipment of food and supplies from Kigali, and the hospital staff are all having to pull extra shifts. This has been my first moment to sit down and breathe since Wednesday lunchtime. Remember when I complained a few weeks ago that I was bored? Definitely not anymore!

I need to run off. I’ve got a few hours to shower, eat something, and hopefully grab a bit of sleep. I will try and email you again as soon as I’m able.

Bye! –John

 

 

* * *

 

TO: john.watson@who.int

FROM: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

Sun, 04 Oct   08:32 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from London w/ a decided lack of sectarian violence

John,

I’m glad things have picked up at the hospital, but I await your reply to say you’re still safe. These rebel groups are hardly predictable in their violence. Are you treating many patients? Seeing many injuries?

I won’t prattle on about my trivialities. Healing refugees and facing off armed African rebels makes my faculty meetings and lab report grading seem paltry and insignificant.

Send me word as soon as you’re able, even if it’s just a quick note.

SH

 

* * *

 

TO: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

FROM: john.watson@who.int

Wed, 07 Oct   13:03 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from Rwanda w/ a hospital waiting room full of refugees and 2 goats

 

Things are still a bit pear shaped here. It’s mostly dehydration and the odd cuts and bruises coming, but still people are coming here because they have no idea where else to go. Once we’re sure they can make the journey, we’re attempting to send people to either Cyangugu (40 km away) or Gisenyi (150 km away). We’ve seen a decrease in the number of people we receive each day, and those that we’ve talked to have said that the UFDLC seem to be withdrawing back into Bukavu in the DRC. It’s still not clear to me what this group is doing, but what are any of them doing? The WHO isn’t talking about pulling our people out, and I just got off the phone with the British Consulate in Kigali and they’re not threatening to send us home yet either. The WHO team leader with us here is “monitoring the situation and will make a decision to evacuate when it becomes necessary to do so.”

I’ll email again when I can.

John

 

* * *

 

TO: john.watson@who.int

FROM: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

Thurs, 08 Oct   23:16 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from London w/ a decided lack of goats and refugees

 

I had my monthly unavoidable lunch with my brother today. He was his usual deplorable self. As he has his hands in many an international pot, I inquired about the UFDLC and their current conflict. He reiterated that the situation seems to be managing itself and that the Western regions of Rwanda seem to be in no immediate danger.

I have taken on a new case this week. A developer has just broken ground on a new Argos in Lincolnshire and they found a few remains. I’ve been called up tomorrow morning to investigate and excavate. The developer is obviously quite motivated to be on with his superstore construction, so I don’t imagine this will take very long. I’ll let you know what I find, shall I?

Be safe,

SH

 

* * *

 

TO: sholmes2@ucl.ac.uk

FROM: john.watson@who.int

Sun, 10 Oct   18:45 GMT

SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hello! from Rwanda w/ a goat free hospital waiting room

 

Sherlock,

Things seem to be getting back to normal (such as normal is around here) and we haven’t had a new refugee since yesterday morning. It seems as though things did indeed sort themselves out.

I’ve just popped back to my room to shower and change my clothes. I told Adelaide I would have a drink with her tonight in a sort of celebration to the end of the crisis. Definitely will have a chance to write more tomorrow before my shift.

Until then,

John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UFDLC stands for Union for Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Congo, or Union des Forces Dėmocratiques pour la Liberation du Congo. I’ve made it up for this story.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who thought this story was a fun little bit of fluff, think again. Please heed the new tags. I've also dropped the rating down to "M". It felt like torture to keep it at "E" when the smut is still a few chapters off. But it is coming! I promise!! I'll bump the rating back up when we arrive ;)

_20 October, 05:33 GMT_

_Baker Street, London, United Kingdom_

 

Tuesday began like any other Tuesday for Sherlock. He rose at half-five from a typically restless night of tossing, turning, and light sleep. At a quarter to six he was out the door with both his gym and work bags slung over his shoulder. A six-minute walk later and he was in the locker room of his gym, changing into his swimming trunks, donning his cap, and heading for the pool. By seven he was finished with his laps, showered, dressed, and on his way to the Tube station, via Costa for a coffee. At 7:27 exactly, Sherlock was in his office, checking his email. There was nothing new from John, but it had only been a day since Sherlock had sent his last note. This wasn’t unusual; depending on their work schedules, sometimes nearly a week passed before Sherlock heard from John.

He had a Laboratory Methods lecture to preside over at 9:15 followed by his Urban Archaeology seminar that afternoon. After closing his email, Sherlock spent the rest of his morning busy in preparation for each. Both the lab and the seminar passed unremarkably with only the usual undercurrent of personal drama from his students; a few lied about having completed their lab reports, one young woman in his seminar had ended her relationship with her cheating boyfriend the week before, and another student was struggling to tell his parents that he had moved in with his partner.

After tea, Sherlock had a meeting with Mr. Wiggins and the other two students he was advising, followed by a faculty professional development committee meeting. Lestrade caught up with him after the meeting, inviting him to his half unpacked flat for dinner.

“So, how was your day?” asked Lestrade as he poured Sherlock a glass of wine. The merlot had been open for a few days and was beginning to turn. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, but swallowed a mouthful anyway.

“Fine. Dull.” Sherlock made a circuit of the lounge, peering into open cardboard boxes that were waiting to be unpacked. He found one that contained a number of books and began to paw through them, half-heartedly glancing at the titles. “I am positive that Dante got it wrong. The seventh circle of hell is actually faculty meetings that devolve into violence after the fourth round of ‘but my research budget is bigger than yours, so I deserve the bigger lab.’” The sounds of a fridge opening, clattering pots, and sizzling onions drifted from the kitchen into the lounge.

Lestrade laughed graciously and called out to Sherlock. “There’s a lot of posturing, isn’t there?” He stuck his head into the room and gestured at Sherlock with a wooden spoon. “But let me tell you, if you think you’ll escape it at another university, you’re sorely mistaken. It’s the same all over.” He ducked back into the kitchen.

Sherlock said nothing and choked down another sip of his wine.

“You don’t mind risotto, do you?” called Lestrade.

“No, risotto’s good.” The smell of cooking onions and the crackle of a deglazing pan had awoken a fierce hunger in Sherlock. His caloric consumption all day had subsisted on coffee this morning, tea throughout the day, and a handful of pretzels he nicked from the staff lounge on his way to his afternoon meeting. “Do you cook often?” he asked.

“Every now and then. Probably a couple times a week? Easy stuff though, pasta, chicken, salads.”

Sherlock abandoned the boxes of books and made his way into the kitchen. “I hate cooking. I can do it, obviously. Its simple enough. But I never cook for myself.”

“That’s not what John says,” Lestrade remarked, cutting Sherlock a sideways glance and grinning. “I’ve heard you can barely make tea.” Sherlock said nothing, picking at a spot of stuck on _something_ on the worktop he leaned against. “Maybe you should think about some cooking lessons? You could surprise John with a meal when you see him next. That would be pretty romantic.”

“I don’t need cooking lessons. Anyone can follow a recipe and prepare a decent meal,” said Sherlock, ending the conversation as he made a mental note to ask his landlady for a few cooking pointers. Lestrade shrugged and turned back to the sauté pan on the stove, stirring its contents slowly and methodically. Sherlock sipped again from his wine and glanced around the haphazard kitchen.

Everything about the flat screamed fresh divorcee; from the lack of care taken in the packing, to the dearth of personal items or mementos. There were no personal photos, no sentimental knick-knacks, the books were all clearly Lestrade’s, and most of the furniture, kitchenware, and appliances were newly purchased.

“Go ahead and ask, if you like,” said Lestrade, seemingly reading his mind. Sherlock, without any shame of being caught out, gestured around the flat with his wine glass.

“Which came first? The divorce or the job at UCL?”

“Kind of at the same time, actually. I went to Africa and we were meant to take the time apart to revaluate our relationship. When I got back, the offer from the department was waiting for me and she was not.” Lestrade shrugged, his stirring hand never ceasing its movement. “It was a long time coming, to be honest. The kids are older now, and it had just become clear over the last year that things were not going to get any better.”

Sherlock said nothing, allowing the silence to spin out between them. Lestrade finally laughed awkwardly. “Ah well. I’m living the life of a wrinkly old bachelor in London now. Pass me the pepper, would you? And make yourself useful. Plates are in the cupboard behind you.”

Over dinner they talked about not much at all; work, departmental politics and gossip, how Lestrade was finding his new flat and neighbourhood. Eventually their bowls were empty and Lestrade was making tea.

“So are your parents still together then?” asked Lestrade, depositing the tea tray on the table between them.

“In practical terms, yes. They’ve been married for nearly forty-five years. In emotional terms, their marriage ended in the late eighties.”

“Do they still live together?”

“My father is away more than he’s at home. He travels for work, and has a mistress here in London that he lives with for a majority of the time,” answered Sherlock in a pragmatic tone. “He only returns to the family home in Sussex when my mother has need of him for social events.”

Lestrade gaped at him as Sherlock sipped his tea. “According to Molly, my parents’ relationship is to blame for what she calls my ‘emotional constipation’.” Sherlock made air quotes and affected an expression to convey exactly what he thought of _that_.

“Well,” began Lestrade. “Look. Giving relationship advice isn’t really my thing. Obviously, I’m in no good place to be throwing stones. Furthermore, we’re blokes, and we’re British, so this conversation is already making me feel a little uncomfortable.” He fiddled with his teacup on the tabletop. “But John seems like a really nice guy, and its obvious that there’s something between the two of you. I just hope that neither of you are too afraid to make a go of it. We’re all rooting for you—“

Sherlock rolled his eyes. This was decidedly one of the worst conversations of his lifetime. Lestrade sensed his discomfort and chuckled. “All right. I’ll drop it.” And he did.

Before long, Sherlock was back out on the kerb, breathing a sigh of relief and heading towards his flat. Lestrade was tolerable and tonight was the first time he gave any indication in wanting to meddle in Sherlock’s life. Sherlock couldn’t allow him to make a habit of it though. He’d have to discourage any further conversations pertaining to his family, romantic, or personal life.

Sherlock arrived back at his flat before Medical Mysteries came on Channel 5. He was just settling in when his mobile rang.

“Holmes.”

“Sherlock.”

“Lestrade? I just left there. Look, I neither want nor need any more relationship advice from you. In fact, it might be best if we keep our friendship at a more casual level—“

“Sherlock. Listen to me. Something’s happened.”

“What do you mean? I’m sure a good many things have happened in the twenty-five minutes since I left your flat.”

“No. In Rwanda. Something’s happened in Kirambo,” he finished weakly. Shock left Sherlock unable to think of anything to say. Surely he had heard wrong.

“What are you on about, Lestrade?”

“There was some kind of attack in the village earlier today. I just got a message from one of my connections at the consulate in Kilgali. He wasn’t able to give me many details, but a militia group from the DRC came across the border and attacked the village.” He didn’t wait for Sherlock to ask. “I don’t know anything about John or the hospital.”

Sherlock’s heart was pounding and a jittery burst of adrenaline bubbled up from his gut. “I have to go,” he said abruptly.

“Why don’t you come over here while we wait for more information. I’ve got a few calls out—“

“No,” Sherlock cut him off without hesitation. “I have to go,” and he disconnected the call. Without pause, he rang Mycroft.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of a call from you this evening, Sherlock?”

“Something’s happened in Rwanda. I need to know what’s going on.”

“In Kigali?” Mycroft’s tone was instantly grave.

“Kirambo.”

“Let me look into it. I need a couple minutes and I’ll ring you back,” and Mycroft rang off.

It was the longest twelve minutes of Sherlock’s life. He paced his flat, going from lounge, to kitchen, the office, and ending in his bedroom. Standing in the middle of his bedroom he felt lost and unsure. John might be in danger. He might be…dead. Suddenly all of the things that Sherlock should have done before he left Rwanda, all of the things that he should have said, echoed in his brain. He sat down heavily on his bed and covered his mouth with shaking hands. Half a minute passed and Sherlock felt he would go out of his mind with inactivity. He stood, strode to his closet, and pulled down his suitcase from where he had stowed it two months prior. He had begun tossing a hodgepodge of clothes into the open case—pants, socks, random shirts, far too many pairs of trousers—when there was a cursory rap at the front door before he heard it open.

“Sherlock?” It was Mycroft. It must be bad if he came over in person. And in record time too—his flat in Knightsbridge was a seventeen-minute drive on a good day. Sherlock slammed his dresser drawer shut just as Mycroft appeared in his bedroom doorway. “Sherlock.”

“Can you get me a flight to Kigali? As soon as possible, of course. It would be best if I could get directly to Cyangugu, but I can arrange something once I arrive if you can only get me as far as Kigali.” Sherlock darted into the loo to grab a few things off of the sink. “Do you have some kind of dossier made up?” He brushed past Mycroft still standing in the doorway. His passport was somewhere in the lounge, maybe under those papers he had tossed on the desk earlier? Sherlock rooted around the desk, tossing books, journals, and papers hither and yon. “No reports? Files?” he queried, without even glancing back at Mycroft. “I guess you can ride with me to the airport and tell me what you’ve found out on the way. Is your car still here? Or should I call for—“

“Sherlock. Be still.” Mycroft brought him to a halt with a firm hand on his shoulder. Sherlock tried to throw him off, but his brother’s hand tightened his grip, forcing him to cease the pillaging of his desk and straighten up. The pause in his frenetic motions however, did not mean an end to his swirling thoughts.

“We don’t have time to waste, Mycroft,” Sherlock struggled in his brother’s firm grasp.

“Sherlock, brother, be still for just a moment and I will tell you what about I know about Dr Watson.”

Under different circumstances Sherlock might have been dismayed that Mycroft had so easily pinpointed the target of his fear. That Sherlock had been so utterly transparent might have been frustrating and disconcerting, but in this moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Instead, he allowed Mycroft to lead him to the kitchen table and push him gently into one of the chairs.

“Now then,” began Mycroft. He flitted around the kitchen, pulling down mugs, filling the kettle, depositing the sugar and milk onto the tea tray. “The attack in Kirambo came without warning. Our intelligence in that area is light, given the remoteness of the location. We believe the _Union des Forces Dėmocratiques pour la Liberation du Congo_ are responsible, but I have not been able to confirm that.”

“John said they had left the area,” interrupted Sherlock. “They had never even crossed over the border into Rwanda."

“They had appeared to retreat, that is correct. Our interests in that area of the country, I regret to say, are minimal, and therefore not as much attention is devoted to that region as is perhaps advisable. The UFDLC has not released a statement affirming as such, but their recent actions point to a desire to continue the work begun by their Hutu predecessors.”

“This is related to a twenty year old genocide?”  
  
“It appears so. Following the defeat of the Hutu majority government in Kigali in July 1994 by the Rwandan Patriotic Front, many of the remaining Hutu aggressors fled to the Democratic Republic of the Congo, or as it was called then, Zaire. They set up refugee camps, regrouped, and planned to finish the work they had begun. Fortunately, between disease and squalid conditions in the camps, as well as incursions by the new Rwandan government against the remaining Hutu militant groups in the camps, much of the whispers of continued genocide were quashed.”

Mycroft paused in his political history lesson to rise from the table and make two cups of tea. Sherlock sat silently, his elbows braced on his knees and his hands clutched his head. This was insensate, them sitting here, calmly (at least on the part of Mycroft) discussing central African politics, when John’s fate was unknown. Finally, Mycroft returned to the table, tea tray in hand, and resumed his seat.

“There have been a number of conflicts between the Congolese and Rwandan governments in the subsequent years. The First Congo War involved rebel groups propped up by the Rwandan government seeking to oust the Congolese dictator Mobutu, who fled into exile in ’97. Since then, Rwanda has fallen out with the DRC government, and while relations remain mostly stable between the neighbouring countries, there is no love lost. Occasionally, militant groups out of the DRC have attacked across the border, in the name of their former Hutu leaders, the interference of the Rwandan government on their affairs, or—“

“Will you get to the bloody point already, Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted, springing to his feet and jostling the table, causing his still full teacup to slosh into the saucer. “I don’t care about this, any of it. I don’t care about a decades old conflict, or your failure to keep tabs on a region of the world that has some of the highest numbers of British aid workers stationed there.” Sherlock began to pace the room, making tight turns by the quietly humming refrigerator and then again by the doorway into the lounge. Mycroft watched him with narrowed eyes.

“The only words I am interested in hearing out of your overlarge mouth is whether or not John is dead or alive, and if, by some miracle of god, it is the latter, then what you are doing to bring him home.”

Silence filled the kitchen following Sherlock’s shouted words. Mycroft continued to regard him with a look of incredulity tinged with alarm. Finally, _finally,_ he spoke.

“Let us ignore for the moment, brother, the fact that you just invoked the omnipotence of a god that I have heard you, on several occasions, denounce with Dawkins-esque vehemence. Let us also set aside your attack of my office and our alleged inability to protect citizens of the crown.” Mycroft stood, drawing himself to his full height and straightening his waistcoat.

“My office is, at this very moment, attempting to ascertain Dr Watson’s current status. I had to scramble a team of SAS forces out of an ongoing and very delicate situation Libya to get me information and begin an evacuation.”

“So you don’t know anything then,” Sherlock sneered. “You don’t know the motive or the individuals behind the attack. You don’t know if British citizens were targeted or simply caught in the crossfire. You don’t know the status of said British citizens or the other WHO staff at the hospital.” Oh of all the times to catch Mycroft in the dark about something. Normally he would have loved to hear Mycroft admit that his reach wasn’t quiet as far as he would have people believe, but in this instance, Sherlock couldn’t muster up the energy to gloat.

Mycroft caught up his coat from where it was draped over a chair in the lounge. “Get your things,” he said, gesturing towards Sherlock’s bedroom. “We’ll wait for information back at my flat and then formulate a plan.” With two long fingers, Mycroft plucked the illusive passport from the mess on Sherlock’s desk and tossed it to him. “I can see that leaving you to sit here idle is inadvisable. I fail to understand what you think you can do that the SAS would be incapable of handling,” he said as he pulled on his coat. “But, if I’ve learned anything from being your brother these past decades, it is that keeping you from something you love is a losing battle.” Mycroft pulled open the front door. “I’ll meet you down in the car. Don’t dawdle.”

 

* * *

 

It had been two hours since they had arrived at Mycroft’s insufferably posh flat. In that time, Sherlock had insulted, whined, and threatened Mycroft to the point that Mycroft had handed him a half-empty packet of cigarettes and pointed him to the back garden, warning him not to get any ash or flick cigarette butts in his new koi pond.

“Miyoshi will have your head,” he had warned.

Alone in the walled garden, Sherlock might have smoked them all, lighting one from the dwindling end of another. But as it was, he hadn’t smoked in six months, and after just two, his head was buzzing and his stomach threatening to expel half-digested risotto into Miyoshi’s pond. So instead, he held an unlit cigarette under his nose and inhaled the scent of the rolling papers and tobacco, before expelling a breath into the cooling night air. He lay back on a cushioned chaise, staring up at the few stars he could see through London’s light pollution. It was nearing two in the morning, and Sherlock watched as the moon sank behind the trees in Hyde Park.

In the hours since entering Mycroft’s office, Sherlock’s mind had quieted a bit. Panicking over John’s welfare was accomplishing nothing except giving Mycroft a bigger glimpse into Sherlock’s heart, something that under normal circumstances would have been terrifying. Furthermore, Mycroft was right. There was nothing that Sherlock could do, and attempting to craft a plan of salvation from the extremely limited information they had would be futile.

So instead, during these waiting hours, Sherlock examined his heart. Since learning of the attack and being faced with the possibility of John’s death, Sherlock had been frantic. His nerves were electrified and he couldn’t settle. He felt as though he had drunk a gallon of coffee or smoked another eight cigarettes. He was experiencing the very strange sensation of feeling as though his very flesh might be torn apart by the strength of his emotions. Pacing, smoking, shouting at Mycroft—none of these seemed to calm him and he thought he very well may die from the anxiety he was experiencing.

These feelings were so violent, so strong; certainly stronger than anything he had ever felt before. There was no comparison between the vehemence of these feelings and those of solving a particularly interesting case, or brushing back that last layer of dirt and uncovering a perfectly intact skull on a dig. Was this a true indicator of his feelings for John? Faced with the thought of a world without the man and Sherlock felt as though he would never been sane again.

Sherlock was struggling to think beyond the next minute. Despite the fact that he was so Type A he couldn’t live minute to minute, he could not bring himself to think ahead to what he might do tomorrow. What if John was dead? What if he was alive and was hiding in a storage closet somewhere in hospital? What if he had been taken by the rebel group and was being held hostage in some mountain rebel camp? Sherlock couldn’t even begin to think of what he might do in any of these circumstances. And if he saw John again, if John was rescued and they were reunited, how did all of this change their reunion? Their future together?

“Sherlock,” Mycroft startled him out his overwrought musings and Sherlock looked over to see him silhouetted in the doorframe that lead into the house. “Come inside. We should have news any moment.”

 

 

Mycroft, his ever-present assistant, and three other individuals were seated around Mycroft’s teak dining table. To one end of the large table sat a triangular conference phone, Mycroft and his compatriots gathered around it. One woman was leaning over a map of central Africa, pointing out possible retreat routes. Sherlock paced around the perimeter of the dining room, the fingers of his right hand drumming on his chin in anxiety, while he continued to clutch the unlit cigarette in his right.

“This is charlie-echo-5-1-3, head of operation alpha-whiskey-hotel-oscar signaling in from Kibogora Hospital,” a voice crackled out of the speakerphone. Sherlock immediately ceased his pacing and turned towards Mycroft across the table. He gripped the ornately carved rail and spindles of the chair in front of him.

“This is Greywolf, come in, charlie-echo,” Sherlock’s mind surfaced enough from its miasma of anxiety and fear to snort aloud at Mycroft’s code name. Mycroft shot him a reproving glare. Since childhood, he had always been obsessed with wolves, bemoaning the fact that there had not been any wild wolves in Great Britain since the time of Henry VII.

“This is not a coded mission,” continued Mycroft, speaking to the disembodied voice. “All parties present on my end have the appropriate security clearance. You may speak freely.”

“As you say, sir,” replied charlie-echo. “So our chopper just dropped us a few kilometres from the front entrance of hospital. Infrared indicates that those left in the building alive are in a weakened state.” Sherlock’s knuckles turned bone white as gripped the back of the chair.

“Proceed with caution, lieutenant. We’re looking for hospital staff working with the World Health Organization, particularly one Dr John Watson, a British citizen and former Captain in the RAMC.”

“Physical description?” charlie-echo asked. Everyone at the table but Mycroft turned to look at Sherlock.

“Sandy blonde—“ began Sherlock

“35 years of age. Height is 168 centimetres, weight: 66 kilos,” Mycroft was reading from an open file folder laying on the tabletop. Sherlock could see an official photograph peeking out from under a stack of papers. He ached with anxiety and longing. “Dark blonde hair, blue eyes.” Mycroft’s eyes flicked up and caught Sherlock’s gaze. He lifted a querying brow and Sherlock nodded tightly.

“Heard, sir. We’ll let you know what we find.”

“Actually, lieutenant,” broke in the woman with the map. “Stay on radio and report as you search. We’re also looking for any evidence indicative of the rebels, or where they might have gone.”

“Heard,” repeated charlie-echo. He was silent for nearly a minute, but rustling and brushing noises could be heard through the speaker. Then, quiet breathing. “We are approaching a door around the back of hospital,” charlie-echo whispered. More rustling noises and then a solid _thud_. “Okay, we’re inside. Still not seeing much on the infrared. I suspect the rebels are gone.”

“That confirms the intelligence we have gathered,” answered one of the other men at the table. “Satellite photos show them crossing the boarder near Kagano, making their way up the coast, via a few villages and Kibogora, then continuing north before crossing back over Lake Kivu from a village west of Kayove.”

Sherlock let the details flow over him. He would worry about who was behind the attack if it turned out they still had John. In the meantime, he held his breath until he grew dizzy, blowing it out slowly and feeling slightly more in control of himself.

“Sir—“ charlie-echo’s voice sounded tight, but that was its only betray of emotion. “Requesting a wet team be sent to Kibogora hospital. It appears they locked or barricaded all points of egress and executed all of the patients.” Sherlock heard charlie-echo sending the rest of his team out to search for survivors.

“Any sign of the WHO or other hospital staff?” asked Mycroft, his eyes once again flicking up to Sherlock. He couldn’t recall ever seeing such a look of sympathy on Mycroft. It was subtle, but it was there.

“We’ve encountered a few individuals in lab coats, but so far they all appear to be Rwandan,” charlie-echo paused. “I’ve got a live one!” he called out to someone on his end. “A civilian—a patient,” this was directed to Mycroft it seemed.

“Do what you can for any survivors you find,” barked Mycroft. He looked to his assistant who was talking quietly on her mobile in the corner of the room. She nodded. “There’s a team on their way from Kigali and another from Nairobi. You’ll have support in an hour. Keep looking for Dr Watson and the rest of the WHO team.”

“All right,” said charlie-echo. There was a rustling noise and an exhale that sounded like he was standing. The sound of broken glass crunching underfoot crackled out of the speaker. “I’m out in the reception area…coming around to the check in desk…okay.” A heavy exhale. “Hey Sully, give me a hand over here!” charlie-echo shouted away from his mic. “I’ve got four possible WHO staff…all…deceased.” There were a few grunts from charlie-echo, possibly as he crawled around checking for pulses.

“Can you i.d. them?” asked Sherlock, before he could stop himself. _Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn_.

“Yeah. Late forties, male, Middle Eastern, possibly Iranian. Caucasian female, dark hair, mid-to late thirties. Caucasian male, early forties, dark hair, glasses. Another Caucasian female, blonde hair, probably mid thirties. The last one has a name badge on, says ‘Taylor’.”

“Oh, Adelaide,” breathed Sherlock. He hadn’t known her well, but he knew that she and John were close. John had mentioned in one of his last emails that she would be heading back to Melbourne in just a couple of weeks.

“Call the director of the Central African Office at the World Health Organization,” Mycroft turned to his assistant. “Let him know I’ll be in touch with him shortly. If he sends over files of everyone currently stationed at Kibogora, I’ll have our men i.d. the bodies on site.” She nodded and left the room, already speaking into her phone.

“My men have found a few more possible WHO personnel,” said charlie-echo. “But no one matching your description of Dr Watson.” Sherlock breathed, oxygen rushing into his lungs so quickly he felt a flash of dizziness.

“How many survivors?” asked Mycroft.

“Looks like nearly ten.”

“And deceased?”

“I’d say close to ninety. Maybe more,” intoned charlie-echo.

“Shit,” muttered someone seated at the dining table.

“As I said, it appears they came in with little warning, barred the exits, and executed everyone, or nearly everyone.

“What about the staff quarters?” Sherlock said to himself.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft looked up.

“Have they searched the rest of the compound? The staff quarters?” Sherlock spoke half to Mycroft, half to charlie-echo.

“I dispatched two of my men when we arrived. They just radioed to say those buildings are clear.”

“If they took Dr Watson, its likely they took others as well,” said the woman gesturing to the map. “They could be anywhere by now.”

“Are we saying this is a hostage situation?” asked one of the others.

“Without knowing who was taken, we can’t assume that with any certainty.”

“What about the possibility that they escaped? We need to start combing the mountains looking for them.”

“Wait, why is this on us to stage a rescue mission? One British doctor doesn’t mean that we’re on the hook for this.”

“Enough,” Mycroft barked out, bringing silence to the group. “I told the WHO that we would take the lead on this. No one here wants to wait for the UN to decide that they’re going to mobilize a few security forces. We’d be waiting weeks for that.” Everyone seated at the table exchanged a look.

“Lieutenant,” said Mycroft to the speakerphone. “Your support from Kigali is ten minutes out. When they arrive, take a team into the village and find out what you can. We need to know whether the missing hospital staff fled or were taken by the rebels. There are medics coming who will stabilize and arrange transport for the survivors.”

“Heard. I’ll contact you again when we’ve reached the village,” charlie-echo signed off and there was silence in the room once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't said this before, but I am so happy to have you readers! I don't have a beta, so anyone with medical, archaeological, or geo-political experience who have comments or CONcrit, feel free to speak up. Finally, I have joined the world of Tumblr, to better follow along with my favorite authors here. I don't post often, but feel free to follow me if you like. I can be found at: sheascendstoo. I occasionally post funny stuff or updates about this little fic.


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